Twelve Months
by gemmawolf
Summary: After an accident causing him to lose seven years worth of memory, Arthur Kirkland thinks that he is 18 and that Alfred is still his enemy. In reality, they are engaged, and Alfred has approximately twelve months to get his soul mate to fall in love with him all over again. But the clock is ticking...
1. May

**Forewarning: I am English, therefore some of the terms may confuse you if you are not familiar with the systems and phrases in Britain. College = American high school with a couple of differences, university = university/college. Tell me if you're having trouble grasping translations in this story – or any of mine for that matter – and I'll try and explain it. I've included a mix of American and English phrases because Alfred and Arthur will natural default to different versions.**

**And we British don't always talk so formally; I'm sure not helping the posh stereotype, am I?**

**Edit: Now with text-breakers!**

* * *

2nd May

It was difficult for the sun to break through the thick lining of cloud that clung to London's gloomy streets; the spring rain had persisted all day, and most of the days before it. Now employees of one of the thousands of economic corporations went to and fro throughout the building, hurrying to meetings and offices or dashing in from the ceaseless rain, trailing invisible puddles across the polished stone from saturated raincoats and dripping umbrellas. It was a typical day: busy, with heavy skies and all the bustle of the capital city going on both inside and out of the building.

Four figures emerged from the lifts on the first floor, chatting happily away on their way out to lunch. It was around midday, they guessed; none of them were bothered about the time because they were far too busy discussing seating arrangements and music– after all, wedding bells would soon be ringing.

There used to be a time when the Englishman was too embarrassed to be seen with his American boyfriend's arm draped around his waist, though those days were long gone. He did, however, resent being labelled 'the bride' in the plans. "It's bad enough that I'm the one wearing the white suit," he said as he ruffled his fiancé's hair, "but requesting to play 'Hey There Delilah' as I walk down the aisle is just plain insulting!"

The Frenchman shook his golden head of hair with laughter at the comment. "Really, Arthur? We all know that the colour is technically _ivory_ seeing as white signifies _purity_."

"Matthew, control your woman," the offended man ordered with a smirk.

"Don't be so bossy with my brother, Artie," the designated groom chuckled, hugging Arthur from behind as they neared the top of the stairs. "He's the best man after all!"

Arthur moved out of the American's grasp, spinning around on the spot to face him; scolding, even when he was just teasing, was more fun when he saw his expression. "Don't call me-"

In reality, the sharp squeak of his workshoes on the wet marble probably wasn't that loud, but to the happy couple it echoed like a drop of water in a cave: incredibly short, but enough to spread ripples through their existence and disturb the perfect balance in their lives. With a sudden glimpse of panic in both green and blue eyes alike, Arthur made a grab at Alfred to steady himself, missed, tumbled backwards down the flight of stairs, only stopped by the wall at the turn near the ground floor. His head hit the floor with an audible _thunk!_ and he lay unmoving.

The seconds ticked by before Alfred finally comprehended what had happened. "Arthur," he croaked, then dashed forward down the steps, skidding on the tiles and grasping the railing for support, refusing to stop. "Arthur!"

He dropped to the side of his partner, his heart pounding faster than he thought was possible; a small pool of blood was already forming near the Englishman's head, yet other than that he couldn't see any injury, but it had been quite a tumble. He registered Matthew's soft voice asking for an ambulance somewhere in the background, but that wasn't important. What matter was that his fiancé was breathing – _Breathing! Thank you, God! – _judging from the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Francis first tried to coax him away from the unconscious young man, but was forced to drag him instead as the receptionist came over, confident that she could identify any injuries. His brother had to help restrain him while they waited for the ambulance, Alfred crying without shame the whole time as his soul screamed, _Don't die, don't die, don't die, Arthur!_

* * *

4th May

It was hard for Alfred to not touch his fiancé as he sat by the hospital bed. He couldn't hold his hand: the one closest to him was in plaster thanks to a broken wrist. He couldn't rest his arms and head on his torso in case he caused any more damage to the two cracked ribs. And seeing as his head must be sensitive from whacking the hard floor – he still couldn't believe how _loud_ it had been – and having stitches he didn't trail his fingers through the tangled, platinum locks.

Two days of waiting, thinking, had taken its toll on the American; he was unshaven, his hair was left to run wild, and he still wore the same suit trousers and now-crumpled white shirt as he did on the day of the accident. But he found it nearly impossible to leave the room, only heading back to their small apartment nestled in a block of buildings in the vicinity of the British Museum for a quick shower and something to eat. His everyday snacking had been thrown out of the window; it wasn't even worth making a mad dash for a vending machine in one of the halls if it meant he might miss Arthur waking up.

Because he _would_ wake up and he _would_ be the first person the Brit laid eyes on.

His gaze fell to the soft, emotionless expression on the shorter man wore in his lifeless sleep. _Those damn eyebrows,_ he thought with a fond smile, recalling the years of teasing he had put him through because of those furry beasts. But now, they were a precious part of the Arthur package, and the American could only pray that the package would be delivered in one piece, and within three to five working days – preferably less.

He'd seen it before in movies, TV shows, even in books; people banging their heads or being traumatised and losing every single one of their precious, unique memories that made them a person. He could hardly bear the thought of that happening to his Artie. Not when it was his fault.

At first he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, feeding off his desperation and fashioning a daydream right in front of him. But no, he was certain that the Englishman was stirring. It was all he could do not to cry out in joy when those beautiful forest green eyes fluttered open and rested on him.

"Arthur? Oh my God, you're awake! How are you feeling?" he babbled, leaning into the bewildered Brit's field of view.

The petit man's grew wide with – what? Shock? Fear? Dread swamped Alfred's bliss, forcing it down and drowning it. "Arthur?" he repeated, his nightmares threatening to become real. "Please tell me you know who you are, that you know who I am."

After a tense moment Arthur opened his cracked lips and replied in his hoarse, unused voice: "Of course I do, you git!"

The American wrapped his arms around his boyfriend faster than lightning, still cautious about causing further pain, but the drowsy man pushed him away with his one good arm. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing? Why are you here? Get out!"

"W-what?" he asked, the fear ducking the happiness back under for another round of choking. "Arthur, it's me! Alfred!"

"Are you here to torment me or something? Did _you_," Arthur babbled, gesturing to himself, "do this to me?"

"No! God no! Well, it's kinda my fault because I was teasing you-"

"Nothing new there, then," the Englishman huffed.

Unable to contain his panic any longer, Alfred held him firmly by the shoulders. "Jesus, Artie, what's _wrong_ with you? We're getting married, remember? Matthew and Francis will be there, and all our friends."

Swatting him away with a glare, he corrected him without skipping a beat. "There's nothing wrong with me, you git; _you're_ the one with the problem, man-handling me like this. And I don't know a Matthew, and even if I was getting married that frog wouldn't be invited, and I sure as hell won't be marrying _you_. Most importantly: I don't have friends. Now get out of here!"

For the entire speech Alfred had gazed back at his lover and felt a black hole in his heart swallow up all emotion, leaving him empty and his energy stretched incredibly thin. A pair of nurses had entered during that time as well, drawn by the raised voices; one started talking to Arthur to see how he was doing while the other escorted the confused guest out of the room.

"I love you, Arthur!" he shouted back into the room. "Don't forget that, because I'll never forget all the times you said the same thing to me!"

"That's enough," the nurse snapped, shutting the door with a neat click. "He's lost some of his memory, correct? Throwing information like that at him will only make things worse; he's got to work things out at his own pace – he can't remember on his own if you just tell him things."

"Lost his-" Alfred started, covering his eyes with his hand, feeling the tears start to come on. _This can't be happening!_

"You should give him some time," she replied unhelpfully, and re-entered the room, leaving the American standing in the corridor, more alone than he had ever felt in his entire life.

* * *

Matthew was just settling down to some paperwork over a cup of coffee, when there was a knock at the door. Cursing under his breath, he jumped up to let the visitor in, and took a step back in shock when he found his step-brother in the hallway. His usually bright blue eyes were slightly reddened, and it didn't take a detective to see that he had been crying nonstop, judging from his wet cheeks. He motioned him in with a sigh.

"What happened, Al?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper. Contrasting to his brother's usual loud-and-proud persona, the Canadian boy was the quiet, introverted sort, keeping himself to himself and rarely speaking up.

Alfred collapsed onto the couch, putting his feet on the coffee table. Matthew winced; although the furniture wasn't worth very much, it had still been expensive for the graduate and he preferred to keep his possessions in good shape for as long as possible. "Arthur woke up," the American replied, rubbing his eyes under his glasses.

"Did he... did he not recognise you?" the quieter one asked, shutting the door gently and settling at the other end of the sofa.

Alfred laughed coldly, something that Matthew didn't think was possible. "Oh yeah, he recognised me all right. He's convinced that I'm still bullying him, like when we were in high school or something."

"You mean, he's forgotten about being-"

"Engaged? Yep. He hates me. He told me that he'd never marry me, and to get out of his sight." Another wave of tears spilled over the American's cheeks, and he buried his face in his arms. "I've lost him, Mattie. I've lost him."

Matthew, unnerved to see his brother in such a state, moved over to embrace him. "No you've not," he said, pulling the distressed boy closer. "Amnesia is treatable; it's probably just a temporary thing. In a few weeks he'll be back his old self again."

"You think?" came the reply, the speaker still hidden inside the huddle.

The Canadian didn't answer the question, unsure whether to get his sibling's hopes up or not, but decided to give him some advice. "You just have to help him see how much he means to you, one bit at a time."

* * *

5th May

He _wasn't_ mad, no matter what they said. Arthur stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror of the private room's bathroom. Only yesterday – or three days ago, if he had been out for two – he had been wading through his lessons in college, waiting for the evening when he could crash in a park somewhere in London with his friends and drink beer, listen to music and just enjoy being young. But the young man staring back at him was not the same as the Arthur Kirkland he knew: there were no piercing holes in his ears, his hair wasn't some shade of green, the skin was smoother and cleaner than a teenager's.

_They say I'm 25,_ he mused, checking for any sign of a tongue stud that he used to possess. But he couldn't be; he still had a full term left before the final exams, then he would be looking at university places. He still lived with his parents. He was still working at getting his drivers' licence. He still had all those golden years to look forward to where he could mess around with whom and what he pleased.

But something had gone horribly wrong. According to the doctors, he wasn't an 18-year old economy student, and had already finished with all of those things. It was 2012 – _2000 and bloody twelve_! He wouldn't believe it if not for the smooth, elegant mobile that was sat on his bedside table; he had seen the adverts for the brand new iPhone, but knew that neither his job nor his parents' dwindling funds would be able to afford one. This one was different, a bit lighter and thinner and faster than the ones plastered all over the internet, and he was completely clueless as to how to use it, even after one of the nurses had kindly shown him. In the end he had just left it alone to slowly drain of battery since he had no use for it – all the contacts on it were either unknown to him or painful to think about.

For instance, 'Francis Bonnefoy' was a name that he didn't want to look at right now. Two months should have been plenty of time to get over the flirtatious, wine-drinking wanker, but it still left a sore spot in his heart whenever he heard it. Another name that Arthur would happily delete without a second thought was 'Alfred' – though it was missing the 'Jones', which was strange – seeing as the clown did nothing but upset him. "They can both sod off," he said to himself, certain that all of this was some elaborate prank.

And yet... one last clue screamed to him, made him reconsider. A thin gold band, embedded with two diamonds, gripped his left ring finger. It was lovely; simple, but beautiful, and perfect for his tastes. Only someone that truly loved him would be able to pick it out for him.

He shook his head a bit too roughly. _Stop doubting yourself! You _know_ that his isn't real. I'd never forget something as important as getting engaged; just the other week I was wondering if I would die alone. I _can't_ have forgotten something like this!_

There was a knock at the door, but the visitor let himself in. Stepping back into his room he saw Alfred Jones stumbling through the door, dragging a suitcase behind him. "And what do you think _you're_ doing?" he cautioned, crossing his arms. He wasn't in the mood for dealing with this idiot, and there were no nurses around to help remove him.

"Look, Artie, I _know_ you pretty much said you don't want to see me," he said, raising his hands, "but I figured that you needed some things to keep you busy while you're here. Some clothes, too."

"You better not have been going through my things, you git," he replied, still too tired to chastise the terrible nickname and slowly moving back to his bed to rest his ribs. They ached with every breath he took, but at least he hadn't broken his neck from the fall.

The American said nothing, just opened up the suitcase and placed a few tattered books on the bed. Arthur noticed the few garments that were in the case were not the typical dark, torn or explicit clothing that he recognised; instead it was mainly shirts and sweaters in calm, almost elderly colours and patterns.

His gaze shifted to the books that lay patiently on the bed. Although they were much more worn that he remembered - the corners snarled, the pages yellowed – he knew them off by heart from sight of the covers alone. _Shakespeare's Sonnets_, _Oliver Twist_ and _Peter Pan_ seemed to smile at him, begging to be held and read over and over until they fell apart completely.

"They're a couple of your favourites," Alfred whispered, still standing with his hands in his pockets.

Arthur was silent for a moment, studying the condition of his old friends, accepting with a grudge that this was just another piece of evidence that what the doctors were saying was true. "How did you know?" he asked, looking up. He was met with a weak smile.

"I know everything about you."

* * *

9th May

Fighting against the staff at the hospital did nothing to prevent his inevitable fate; Arthur was going home with Alfred whether he liked it or not.

The American git had managed to convince them that they lived together by bringing documents with their shared rent and plans for the wedding to prove that they were engaged. Seeing as Arthur had a case of amnesia clearly stamped on his medical record, he couldn't argue back because he 'didn't know what he was talking about'; those weren't the exact words of his doctor, but he heard them nonetheless.

Even if the Brit had his own place, even if his memories were intact, he needed someone to help him with everyday routines thanks to his busted torso and plastered writing hand; he couldn't work, dress himself or wash on his own – that last point made him _very_ uneasy. He didn't trust the brute as far as he could throw him, which meant that there was no way in hell that he would be assisting with his bathing!

So now the irritated though anxious man sat in the passenger seat of Alfred's scruffy car, alternating his glare between the passing buildings and the driver. He didn't recognise the area at all, and wondered how long it would take to get to the outskirts of the city and back to their neighbourhood. But after only a few minutes the American casually swung the vehicle into an empty space, still in the centre of London, in front of a row of houses, although from the three stories that they took up Arthur guessed that they were actually apartments. He glanced at Alfred, who was undoing both of their seatbelts, and said, "This is a nice street."

The other man smiled, opening the door on his side and getting out. "We agreed on getting a nice pad before a nice car," he explained. Arthur tried to cross his arms but the pressure on his chest and arm caused pain to shoot to his head.

"It looks like a first car," he said, refusing the hand extended to him and struggled out of the heap of rust on his own.

"Yeah, well, some of us had to take the test four times," Alfred said sheepishly, locking the door with a key – a key! They were even obsolete seven years ago. Arthur eyed the set of stone steps like a startled deer, wondering how many floors up they lived. Although he was oblivious about the details of the event before his coma, some natural instinct had kicked him in the gut and now he was finding it hard to breathe, knowing all too well that the last time he encountered stairs it had resulted in agony and cold, gripping fear.

He jerked away from the warm hand that was placed on his shoulder, light but solid, holding his sanity in place. "Come on, let me help you," Alfred said in a hushed tone. He didn't bother waiting for an answer, slipping his arm around the startled English man and encouraging him to take a step upwards. "I won't let you fall."

Arthur was furious at the breach of personal space, but couldn't refuse the support as long as his heart throbbed with panic at the sight of the jagged hill before him. He winced at every little movement, the muscles around his ribs causing him pain for each inch that he climbed. By the time he reached the top of the handful of steps he felt winded, and insisted on a break, giving Alfred time to bring the case up as well. While he waited, the Brit looked out over the area, relaxing for the first time since he had woken up.

Across the one-way street was a small park, made up of lawns, a few flower beds and towering, shady trees, their leaves so thick that they just about blocked the other apartment buildings on the other side of the residential square. He pictured long summer days being spent sprawled on the grass, absorbed in a good book, with a flask of tea at the ready. Simple pleasures.

He came back to reality at the jangling of keys, the elegant wooden door swinging inwards, and noticing another set of stairs. Reluctantly, he stepped inside, preparing to tackle the next obstacle with a grudging acceptance. Even if he didn't like the company, the building seemed... like home, and he wanted to retreat to any safe haven available.

Alfred was surprised by his own patience; it had taken a good half-hour to get Arthur and his case up the stairs to the first floor up, as the winded man needed a rest every few steps and still resisted his help. _I've done well to even get him inside the building,_ he thought, unlocking their front door and holding it open, allowing his fiancé to drink in the interior of their small – though homely – apartment.

The living room hadn't seemed quite right since that awful rainy day, as if a piece of the furniture was missing. Every time he looked over to the couch he expected Arthur to be curled up at the end that the lamp hung over, immersed in a fantasy world of fairies and dragons. He was thankful that the shorter blonde was back in the flat, though it wasn't quite the same; the Englishman hadn't rushed over to the curtains to pull them back and let some daylight in, scorning him for living in the dark; he hadn't bothered to take his shoes off before walking on the carpet, an act that he usually declared a cardinal sin. It was as if the missing piece of furniture had been returned, but with a leg sawn off or some ugly scratches carved down the side, scarring it and making it not quite the same as before, though loved all the same. But Alfred was relieved to hear the usual request:

"Have you got any tea in?" he asked, sitting down on the sofa, his back ram-rod straight.

The American smiled, flicking on the kettle. "Sure. Uh, your parents asked that you call as soon as you got home. Phone's by the bookshelf."

"I'm not calling them."

"But Arthur, they've been worried sick about you – and I know you've not called them," he replied sternly; his partner was usually the responsible one, but that didn't mean that Alfred couldn't have his moments, and was rather bent on having his wayward boyfriend do the right, moral thing. And in this case, the right thing to do was to be courteous and call worried loved ones.

The Brit, however, was having none of it. "Why should I? They don't care what happens to me. They're probably rejoicing at the fact that you've dragged me off to this- this- _dump_, and they don't have to put up with my music and late nights."

Alfred sighed, bringing the tea over. "Artie, differences aside, they're your family and they love you. Just make sure you call them later, OK? Here." He handed him the mug, not caving to using china even if his boyfriend couldn't remember their little debate about the manliness of different cup-types.

Arthur looked into the mug as if it contained venom, then took a sip. His eyes grew wide. "That's pretty good, actually. I thought it would taste like mud," he muttered. Alfred thought about brushing his cheek with his fingertips, or running his hand gently through his soft hair, but decided against it, not wanting to disrupt this strange, delicate balance that he had somehow earned in the few short minutes back at home. _Maybe somewhere, somehow, he knows this place,_ he mused.

"I just made it how you like it: strong and sweet." He held back on adding 'like your men', repressing the urge to tease him for once. Seeing as Arthur wasn't going to do it, he got up to pull the curtains open and reveal the view of the park just across the narrow street; the secluded little garden was another of Arthur's favourite things, and they had often spent a summer evening stretched out on the lawns and watching the sky turn orange to pink to red as the sun set beyond the horizon of the zig-zagging patchwork that was London's rooftops.

They watched TV in an awkward silence for the next few hours, then called it an early night. Alfred showed him the bedroom before starting to undress, however the Brit just became flustered.

"What do you think you're doing?" he squawked, blushing and looking away.

Alfred looked up. "Huh? Well, it's bedtime."

"Don't be such a child, and anyway, what I mean is that I'm _not_ sharing a bed with you!"

He prepared to argue his case – he loved him, he wouldn't try anything on, he paid for the damn bed – but knew it would be futile and mumbled an apology before retreating back into the living room, bringing a spare duvet out of the wardrobe. It made sense: he was still a stranger to his green-eyed soul mate, so it wasn't exactly fair to ask him to share a bed with him.

_Still,_ he thought, settling into the itchy fabric of the settee and quilt, _I hope I don't have to sleep on here too long._

* * *

23rd May

Arthur lay in the stranger's bed, staring at the ceiling, tumbling over his thoughts like he did every morning. The days had been ticking by quickly though uneventfully; each day was the same, with Alfred leaving him alone in the two-bed roomed apartment Monday to Friday to wander about and try and reacquaint himself with their home. He felt like a prisoner, locked away by his tormentor and left to wallow.

He had expected himself to react more strongly, to fight Alfred's every move towards him, to try and break out of the flat and report the American for stalking him – how else could he know so much about him?

But he wasn't stupid; he _knew_ there was a gaping gap in his memories. He remembered liking punk music, dark clothing with studs and tears, fighting with his guardian, finding practical mathematics a challenge. Yet, from his perspective, he had suddenly matured by seven years. After digging out a few old CDs a couple of days ago, he found that the heavy beats and harsh voices no longer appealed to him. He secretly liked the way he looked in the neutral colours that the shirts and jumpers brought to him, making his eyes brighter and his skin seem less pale.

And Alfred? For some reason that he still couldn't pinpoint, he felt calm, almost reassured by his presence, even though all logic screamed for him to scare him off before a barrage of jokes and insults came his way. But the stupid idiot always proved him wrong, never once laughing at him when he couldn't work something out that should be obvious to him, or pointing fun at his enormous eyebrows or height issues.

It was perfectly possible that maybe, against all odds, they had switched their relationship from enemies to lovers over the course of seven years. Memories, or lack of them, aside, the raw emotions were there, ready to be followed. His heart trusted Alfred Jones, but his head steered him away.

_Could it simply be lust?_ he wondered, sitting up and wincing from his bruised ribs, knocking back his painkillers with a stale glass of water. He wasn't ready to blindly chase a boy just because he thought he might be in love with him – not after what happened last time. His feelings towards the loud-mouth American wasn't even 'love', just...

Come to think of it, he couldn't put a label on how he felt around him.

Knowing his own organised habits, he threw on his green flannel dressing gown and moved into the living room, rubbing his eyes. He growled in frustration at the sight of the duvet and pillows scattering the settee and floor equally, likely undisturbed from when Alfred had got up for work at five. He _hated_ mess, and the git probably knew it but left a minefield of bedding which he couldn't pick up because _he couldn't bloody bend over!_ Arthur dodged the blankets and stood in front of the bookcase, frowning as he searched for the item that almost certainly existed: a photo album. It didn't take him long to pick it out; the cover was simple brown leather, like an ancient classic, with 'Memories' stamped in faded gold italics on the spine. Wincing from the stretch, he pulled it off the shelf and sat on the plush carpet.

At first he merely leafed through it, but he soon went back and took a closer look at the photos. There seemed to be no real order, although each image was labelled clearly with a date and a short note, but they were usually categorised. Days out were separate from formal occasions; school photos were set far away from goofy campus life shots. It was a mish-mash of someone's life, collected and filed neatly, not really destined to be looked at properly again after it had been squeezed onto that crammed bookshelf. But now the Englishman studied the familiar faces with interest, straining to remember the sights, smells, sounds; the weather, the atmosphere, the days' content were all equally foreign to him, a language that he had neglected and forgotten how to speak.

The first few pages were filled with photos from their childhood; Arthur recognised a few of them, shocked that he had actually bothered to keep them after all this time. They each had posed images – the type that parents demanded to buy each year – for Year 7, 9 and 11, showing their progress through the gruelling life of high school. _The worst five years of my life,_ he thought with a sigh, taking in the forced smile of his younger self. It was clear from the innocent green eyes that stared back at him how unhappy he had been, but he remembered those lonely years: 'nerd' and 'loner' were only a couple of the nicknames he had, with very few kids even bothering to learn his real name. After the first few weeks he gave up trying to make friends and instead pushed others away, which was a shame in the end because one or two other social outcasts plucked up the courage to go and talk to him, but he turned on them like everyone else had.

Year 9 had been particularly painful for him. He was begging to suss out that he was... _different_ from the other boys in his classes. He wasn't interested in girls, daydreaming about actors rather than actresses; in the beginning he thought it was just admiration, but it became harder and harder to deny the truth to himself as time went on. And he knew – he _knew_ – that despite the health and social lessons talking about how homosexuality was perfectly fine and how you should be 'proud of who you are', a lot more bullying would come his way if he was to come out. He didn't even tell his parents, though somehow his brothers started taunting him about it at home and he had to appease them to keep it under wraps.

It was a rough area of London that he grew up in. Although nothing as disastrous as gang crime or murder happened in his memory, attacks like that and worse occurred a little too often in neighbourhoods only a mile or two from his own council estate. Growing up, he had always promised himself to claw his way out of that hellhole and earn a better life for himself, free from fear of a beating for being gay. Although, once he started his GCSEs, he wished more than once that someone would just attack him rather than dragging out the bullying, which is where Alfred Jones came in.

They had several classes together, even though Arthur could never see how the lad managed to keep his grades at a high level; the new American student was a bit of a clown in lessons, except PE, in which he excelled – the deadly combination landed him a spot with the 'popular kids' in the two years that counted the most. And his attention was usually set on Arthur. He played pranks on him, hiding his trousers in the changing room and once squirted ketchup in his hood on a rainy day, causing him to walk around with sticky, stinking hair the last four hours of school that day. He was often the butt of jokes, and was riled up quickly, which entertained Alfred's friends to no end.

Looking closer at his final photo of his high school years, he spotted his ear piercings (lacking the studs due to uniform rules) and slightly spiked hair. He had thrown all pride away at that point and started to sculpt himself into a newer, rougher image that would make people think twice before messing with him. It worked rather well in college, as all but one of the students left him alone.

That single person, who followed him like a shadow, was Alfred.

The 'bullying' stopped, as the blue-eyed boy's richer inner-city friends got into various prestigious colleges, leaving him to be funnelled into the local college along with everyone else, and he no longer had an immature crowd to entertain. Looking at Alfred's progressive photos, watching the transition from dorky tweenager to handsome young man, Arthur thought back to their classes together as if it was only yesterday; they had maths together, as well as economics and physics. The only difference between them was that the Englishman had chosen literature, following an unrelated but beloved passion while the toned American continued with his sports. He had always found it odd that although he was intelligent, athletic, funny and attractive – the perfect mixture for any girl – Alfred had never given any interest in girls beyond polite greetings, chatting and goodbyes.

The reason was obvious now, but back then it had puzzled Arthur. He shook his head, scolding himself for being so naive when he was younger to never suspect that someone so _wonderful_ could be gay as well. After all, it was clear as day that Francis was the same.

Somehow, he had come to speaking terms with the American – though he insisted at the time that 'friends' was too strong of a word – after being forced to work with each other in classes. But that quickly deteriorated when Arthur started dating the French boy just before Christmas in their first year, and the teasing picked up again; nothing intentionally harmful, and _never_ physical, though it ground him down all over again, fanning the flames of rebellion and pushing him to stray more and more into punk territory.

Aside from that, college was practically uneventful. He dropped physics, having no need for it, and Alfred gave up on sports so that he could focus on getting a good career with his lower grades – though he still worked hard in the various teams in extra-curricular clubs. The last important thing that had happened to him was Francis dumping him for someone 'less depressing'.

Between that awful, lonely April, seven years ago, and now he had fallen in love with Alfred – his tormentor – to the extent that he had promised to spend the rest of his life by his side.

_The world is full of mysteries,_ he mused, skimming through the next few pages. Everything else in the album seemed to be in the blank space of his timeline, and although he thought he would have some closure from seeing such happy, colourful memories, it only made his heart ache more when he considered what he was missing out on. Images of theme parks, late-night parties, concerts, holidays and seasons stretched on almost to the end of the book, and he decided to read through the entire thing some other time with Alfred, who could probably tell him much more than the hastily scribbled notes on each page of parchment.

* * *

29th May

Alfred closed the heavy door behind him, dropped his rucksack in the corner and kicked off his shoes as normal, only to find his fiancé standing in the kitchen with his arms crossed, slightly frowning. _What have I done _now_?_ he asked himself, loosening his tie and walking in to face him. The last few weeks had been tiring, trying not to wind up the poor, confused man but at the same time getting frustrated with _still_ not being able to convince him that he wasn't the bad guy. He just braced himself for the usual heated discussion, ordering himself not to snap after the long day. "Is something wrong?" he asked gently, mentally kicking himself for sounding so evasive.

"No," Arthur said quietly, not meeting his eyes. "But there's something that we need to discuss. I got an e-mail today; our suits are ready to pick up."

"Yeah," he replied, not sure where it was going but feeling his stomach twist.

"I don't think any of this is a good idea, Alfred. We barely get along as it is."

He sighed heavily rubbing his temples. _I should have seen this coming._ "I understand, Arthur. I mean, it's gonna be a lot of work postponing everything, and expensive considering all the deposits we've made, but we can push the wedding back-"

"No, Alfred." He looked up to see Arthur standing ram-rod straight, fists at his sides with resolve. "What I'm saying is that we should cancel it. All of it. I'm not in love with you, which means I can't marry you."

The American started at him with wide azure eyes, completely shocked. He had no anger – how could he accuse him of anything in his state of mind? – and so he didn't get into a blazing row like they would have once upon a time, like he expected to. Instead, he got up, slipped into his sneakers and grabbed his coat. Arthur stared after him.

"Where are you going?" he asked, his voice cracking a little. Maybe he had expected a fight as well.

"To Matthew's place, I need to think."

"Who?"

Alfred laughed sadly, looking into those emerald eyes for the first time that evening. "Well, nothing's changed there at least." He closed the door. Yet with the front door at the bottom of the stairs, he slammed it.

Francis had been looking forward to a quiet night in with his boyfriend, to escaping the troubles that their friends were having at the time. He had stopped off to buy a nicely aged bottle of wine while Matthew had cooked dinner, and now they were settling down on their sofa to enjoy a romantic film; he hoped to end the night without clothes as well.

But when the doorbell rang, he had a sinking feeling and remembered that life doesn't always give you what you want. He opened the door, freshly opened bottle and two glasses in his hand, to find a wet, forlorn American standing alone in the hallway. He gestured him in, calling Matthew to let him know that they had a guest.

"Alfred, what are you doing here, eh?" the Canadian asked, obviously shocked to see his brother in their flat so late at night.

The boy in question simply shrugged, only removing his coat and shoes when Francis asked him to (he was prouder than his boyfriend and so didn't feel at all guilty to order visitors around if it meant that a home was kept clean). This time, he hadn't been crying. The Frenchman could tell that he was far too upset for such luxuries, keeping the emotions bottled away due to disbelief and denial. "Come on, _mon ami_, sit down and I'll pour you a glass as well," he hushed, guiding the man like a lost little boy to the couch.

After a drink, Alfred managed to find the words to explain his sudden appearance. "Arthur wants to call off the wedding."

Matthew shot Francis a worried glance, and he raised his shoulders as if to say 'we could have told you that'. "And by the looks of it, you don't, _non_?" Alfred shook his head. "We know you love him, Alfred, and so does everyone that knows the pair of you, and we also know that you'd be willing to do anything for him-"

"If you're going to tell me 'if I love him I should let him go', you can piss off," the American snarled into his wine, taking another comforting sip.

Francis sat back, gesturing to Matthew to take over; hopefully his brother could get the message through, even if they weren't blood relatives. "What he means is that you won't abandon him, Alfed, and right now he needs that more than ever before. He's confused, probably scared, and I know that it would be too much for me to face if I were in his shoes."

"But what do I do?" Alfred cried, tears spilling for the first time that night.

His brother threw an arm around him. "Like I said last time, you have to take it one step at a time. I know it looks bad now, Al, but think about how well you've already done: he no longer throws you out, or avoids you at home. He doesn't hate you like he did the day he woke up. Just... stick in there, eh?"

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the rain growing noticeably heavier against the window. Finally, Alfred lay against the back of the sofa and rubbed his eyes. "You're right. I'll convince him – somehow. But I need to sleep on it." He looked at Matthew nervously. "You don't suppose I could stay the night?"

Francis' eyes widened in protest, about to object, but his boyfriend glared at him so furiously that he held his tongue. _This was mean to be a romantic evening!_ But he knew in his heart of hearts that a friend in need was more important, especially if it was Matthew's oversensitive brother. "Yes, Al, you can stay. But you'll have to make do with the couch."

"That's fine, I'm used to that anyway."

* * *

Arthur curled up tighter under the duvet which was not quite heavy enough to make him feel secure. Despite his ribs' protests, he needed to lie in such a defensive position for any hope of getting to sleep. The apartment was cold and lonely at night when he didn't have the loud-mouth American sleeping in the living room. Anyone could walk in; he could be robbed, he could be murdered-

_Stop, just stop!_ he told himself, turning over. But the nagging carried on in the pit of his stomach, reminding him that he might have made a horrible mistake in deciding to split up from the one person who seemed to truly care about him; his brothers hadn't made contact at all in the last month, which wasn't unusual, but a timid corner of his soul had hoped that they would check up on him after the accident, to find out for themselves that he was all right. Their continued absence merely confirmed what his younger, angsty self had claimed all along: that they didn't care if he was dead or alive. He had expected his mother to give him more attention; she knew where they lived, she was retired, so there was no excuse for her only to speak with him twice over the phone, the first time largely focussed on criticizing him for not returning her earlier calls. She had soon lost interest once she knew that her 'pride and joy' would live to see another pay check. _She only sees me as a trophy son,_ he thought, knowing all too well how she boasted about his success to her friends without ever striving for achievements of her own.

As much as he resented the near-stranger's behaviour around him, hated how he declared his love and seemed to forget those four years of misery, Alfred Jones was the only person in this strange new world that was willing to support him every day for as long as it took him to get back on track with his life. He _longed_ for that support right now as he lay alone, terrified, in the empty flat.

* * *

30th May

Gently closing the door, Alfred tip-toed towards the bedroom, only to find the tangle of sheets and bedding void of Englishmen. He wouldn't be out on his own, he knew that for sure, and as he turned around Arthur emerged from the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around his waist. He shrieked in surprise, then calmed down once he realised it was only Alfred, not an intruder – though he wondered if he was synonymous with the word.

The shorter man folded his arms and looked away, a blush darkening his cheeks. He said nothing, so Alfred took initiative and threw him some clothes and turned around, talking while the other boy rushed to become modest. "Look, Arthur, I'll cut to the chase. We put every saving we had into this wedding, and if we break up then neither of us is going to have much left to live on. I simply can't afford to cancel it... but not just because of money."

The sounds of struggling had ended, so he slowly turned round to meet the sullen forest-green gaze. "I don't want to be without you," he whispered. "I _can't_ be without you; the thought of it makes me sick. Last night I thought we were done for good, and I half considered throwing myself into the Thames. I held back because first: well, I'm a bit of a coward, and second: you need someone to help you, and no one knows you like I do, Artie."

Arthur was silent for a while, until he answered: "I'm just not happy with marrying a total stranger."

"I'm not either, but I'm lucky 'cos I don't have to get to know you all over again. I don't know if you hate me or if you're just nervous since you can't remember much about me, but look at it this way: I got you to fall in love with me once, and I can do it again. I'll do it as many times as it takes. Just let me try, Artie. Arthur."

Their eyes connected again.

"Please. Let me try."

Arthur nodded – a little reluctantly, but he still nodded. "All right. I mean, I don't want to be alone. Last night was awful! I don't know anyone or anything in this time; it's as if I've jumped seven years into the future and everyone has turned their back on me... except you," he added. "Just one thing, Alfred."

"Anything."

"Promise me that you'll never leave me alone like that again, with no warning and no clue when you'll be back. I was so frightened-" He broke off as Alfred pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.

"I promise," the American said softly into his hair. "And we'll take things slow, too, and maybe – in a few months, though – we could try dating. Now how about a movie?"

Arthur nodded against his chest, and he let him go to pick out a film from their growing collection. Ideally, he'd be buying Blu-Rays, but they would be saving money for a long, _long_ time after the wedding expenses. Once it was running he settled down on the couch next to Arthur, daring to put an arm around his shoulders only because he felt he needed the contact, not because he was flirting again already – that would be absurd!

From the adverts alone, Arthur recognised the movie. "Romeo and Juliet? You really do know everything about me."

"Like how you're a sappy romantic at heart?" Alfred joked, pleased to see a smile on the other man's face. "Remind me though: why do you like this version best?"

"Di Caprio is fit."

"Ah, of course." Alfred smiled. Although it was hard to see past all the confusion between them, somewhere, deep down, his Arthur was still there, and he _would_ marry him like they had planned. Just eleven months to go.

* * *

**Want to see more? Please review, follow, favourite – you know the drill. I need a kick up the arse sometimes to get anything done, and I'll feel guilty if I sit at home doing nothing but only if I know that people are actually waiting for another chapter.**

**And amnesia, done to death *coughlikeTitaniccough* I know, but I wanted to capture that development of character that I just love in some of the fiction out there, but having them grow up together is too much hassle. And sticking a time limit on it makes it so much more intense! (And adorable, me thinks.)**

**I'd like to think that I set the story up well with the first section; I'm talking about the atmosphere, pace and description. Any pointers to help me improve or notes on what you like so that I can use them again would be appreciated. Also, if I've missed any logical parts of the story, for example the first time I wrote this I forgot to have Arthur take **_**any**_** medication for his injuries. . Stuff like that is what I'm clumsy about.**

**Big thing: I have no experience and little knowledge about amnesia, though I have tried to do some research (but you have to admit that Wiki talks in riddles half the time). Any pointers are appreciated, but please note that I might have to neglect real life facts in order to keep the story running smoothly!**

**Finally, any character appearance/pairing requests? I have already planned some others, but there are so many. So long and Alfred and Arthur stay together all is good. ;)**

**Next is June, including some more characters - drunk - and the UK family!**


	2. June

**Wow this is up quickly, which means that karma will take over and other entries will take forever. Thanks for all the reviews in the last chapter – I didn't realise until a week after publishing it, ha ha! Seeing the response is what fuelled me to finish this before I go away for a few days (I've got a computer there, but it's not mine and so the history is an issue). I'm glad you're enjoying it so far, and to answer a few questions:**

**GiriPan will probably surface in later chapters, and this month has some Kiku. :)**

**Ludwig and Gilbert in this chapter, and more of them**

**The wedding is set for 30****th**** April, almost a full 12 months after the accident, and Alfred has to win Artie over in that time**

**Francis does seem like a dick, but he's gonna be developed a bit more, as will Matthew. This next year isn't going to be a cake-walk for any of them – all I can say is that I've written a bit for September already and also have a vague plan for other events in the plot. Mwa ha haa!**

**All right, this chapter has a scene with the UK family, and here are the names to prevent confusion:**

**Scott = Scotland (to keep things simple)**

**Tom = Wales (in tribute to the singer Tom Jones, who is Welsh)**

**Patrick = Northern Ireland (as in Saint Patrick)**

**Dermot = Republic of Ireland (an Irish-y name that I picked up from somewhere; RoI isn't part of the UK, but is considered part of the British Isles – that's your geography lesson right there.)**

**Enjoy this looooong chapter. I even had to cut a bit off the end.**

* * *

3rd June

Somehow, Arthur managed to _not_ throw up out of sheer nerves as he did up his tie in front of the mirror. He'd never been so glad that his job didn't require much physical labour, but did allow for a plethora of tea to be drunk. Truth be told he was _bored_ of sitting at home, and was looking forward to challenging his mind – even if he did feel queasy as hell to face so many strangers.

And that was the awkward part: they _weren't_ strangers at the office block. They were his colleagues – friends, even – and he dreaded to see people's faces when he stared at them blankly, like he simply knew he would. Aside from Alfred, he was only acquainted with Francis before his university years (although they assured him that the frog had changed for the better since then). What would they think of him? Would they be insulted that they hadn't been remembered?

"You OK?" Alfred asked, resting a hand on his shoulder. The Brit nodded, taking a deep breath to calm down before flinching away from the touch as an afterthought.

"Yes, I'm just anxious, that's all," he replied, finishing off the knot. He paused in thought for a moment. "Alfred... What if I can't remember how to do it, the work I mean? All I can remember is doing school work, nothing this important."

"Remember what the doctors said, Artie," he said, swinging his rucksack onto his shoulders. Arthur couldn't begin to understand why he used that horrid, tattered old thing instead of a briefcase. "You've lost memories, but skills and general knowledge are still there."

"Mm, but-"

"Look at it this way: do you remember learning to read? Do you remember the first time you said a full sentence? No, and you didn't get amnesia as a kid, so it will be like that – completely natural." He smiled that perfectly-straight teeth smile that made Arthur's stomach flutter.

"I guess you have a point," he mumbled, pulling on his coat and following him out of the door.

He had expected to drive for some reason, perhaps because it seemed that he was hopping into a car every two minutes when he had lived at home, but after a ten minute walk and a short ride on the tube, followed by another walk, they arrived at the glass doors of their office building. It was modern. Pristine. It was filled with financers of one sort or another, different departments taking up different floors, and Alfred assured him that there was a nice cafe inside.

When they crossed the threshold and into the lobby, however, the American fell silent, staring over to the stairs; Arthur didn't need to be told that it was where their problem had started, but although he had worked it out on his own he still didn't remember the accident. Alfred had described it to him with little detail: he had slipped on a wet part of the floor; it had been no one's fault, just one of those things. Though the Brit could sense from his tension that Alfred blamed himself.

"Good morning, Mr Jones, and it's nice to see you up and about Mr Kirkland," said the receptionist with genuine kindness. In her wavy chocolate hair she had intertwined some sort of flower accessory, a clip or a headband or something. She was the typical face that a company would use to grab visitors' attention: beautiful and polite.

"Hi, Elizabeta – how many times have I told you to call me Alfred?" the American replied, sauntering over as if the patch of marble behind him hadn't been stained with his fiancés blood a month ago.

She huffed with a smile. "You _know_ it's just formalities, Alfred. Your boss says that he's fine with you taking some time out today to show Arthur round. Here are your keys," she said, passing them two cards.

Arthur eyed the cards with curiosity; he'd seen key cards before but he wondered if they were common throughout businesses these days, or if he had simply landed himself an excellent job. "Thanks," he whispered, shrinking a little as he moved closer to Alfred. _Oh God, do we usually chat or something? How long have I known her? She must think I'm being so rude!_

"No worries, you can come back to me if you've got any problems," she said, smiling softly.

After a short battle with the stairs – his ribs were almost healed, though they ached with hard work – they headed to the elevators, and Arthur tried to absorb everything he could about the day's routine. The floor that Alfred was taking him to was number three; he had his lunch hour from twelve to one, but snuck off to the cafe on the floor above for a snack a few times a day; he worked in personal accounting, though more as a number-cruncher than anything that required human contact. Arthur felt that each fact about the American was a hint, urging him to try and remember his own career.

They were assaulted by a crowd of people as they stepped out of the lift; concerned colleagues asked questions and welcomed him back, though the Brit was certain that most of them never spoke to him on a regular basis usually. Alfred waved them off, promising that they would come round and visit them later, winking to the shorter man as if he was confirming that the majority weren't considered 'friends'.

He was led over to the small office made of glass walls, containing a silvery-haired man talking loudly on the phone; although the glass was meant to be soundproof, his half of the conversation was clear from the hallway. "I don't care what your forecast says; just sell my shares already! I gotta go and call some arschloch about his bankruptcy, which means that I'm not gonna get paid since he's dirt poor, so why do I even bother? Later!" He slammed the phone down, smirking contently, and looked up to see the blonde duo waiting at the door. "Arthur! So you're still banging this dummkopf even after the memory loss, kesesese!"

The Brit felt his muscles tense at the crude remark, his face turning red. "Hello, Gilbert," he snarled. Alfred stared at him.

"Wait – you mean you know him? We met him for the first time here so you _have_ to have just remembered on your own." The American's dazzling smile was short lived, however.

"Please," Arthur purred, walking further into the office, casting a sideways glance at the loud-mouthed German (whose feet rested on the expensive yet messy desk), "How could I possibly forget _him_?"

Gilbert chuckled, red eyes twinkling with their usual mischief. "Well, I _am_ awesome!"

"And I thought you were into personal finance, not the stock market," Alfred said, sitting on the desk with his arms crossed. The Englishman figured that they must get along splendidly, what with their brash natures and untidy habits, and that undeniable instinct to get into trouble – oh, and the ability to sulk for England. Gilbert was simply unforgettable, but not in any good way, shape or form.

"I wanna be my own boss," he replied, swinging side to side in the leather chair, "This place blows. I'm after the _real_ action in the city, and fast cars and mega-yachts. Stocks is where I'm gonna be a year from now, so keep on your toes Alfred and you might just find yourself with a fancy office _just like this one_." He winked a devilish ruby eye, then turned to Arthur. "We should have a drink sometime, just like we used to."

"Sure," Arthur shrugged, with no intention of following up the offer. "But we'd better get going. I have to start actual work today."

* * *

They were both over an hour late for starting work, with many co-workers stopping them to wish them well and try and pry into whether or not they had kept a lasting impression on the overwhelmed Brit, however it soon became apparent that the only people Arthur could remember were Alfred, Gilbert and Francis.

_That wasn't pretty,_ the American said to himself. The pair were on the sixth floor, hunting down the project room of Arthur's team. They had bumped into the Frenchman a while ago, and seeing as Arthur's last memories of him were of a heartbreaking separation, voices had been raised and a punch thrown. Luckily, the Brit wasn't much good at aiming, and Francis had been left with a bruised shoulder instead of a black eye.

Although it was wonderful that Arthur had managed to remember Gilbert – even if he was the _only_ memory to resurface since the month before – Alfred couldn't help but feel a little jealous. After all, they were the ones in love, preparing to spend the rest of their lives together, and yet his fiancé still forced him to sleep on the couch and wouldn't let them even share a hug, let alone kiss! Surely that counted for more than a drinking-buddy? Still, he forced the thought out of his head and got ready to face Arthur's closest co-workers.

Just as they approached the cluster of desks in the corner of the vast carpeted area, overlooking the River Thames between the vast columns of glass that made up neighbouring skyscrapers, one of the men looked up; a smile was instantly plastered on his already cheery face. "Hey, guys, it's Arthur!" he cried, standing up and bouncing over.

"Uh, hello," Arthur said reluctantly, tensing up at his boyfriend's side. He looked at the man for a moment, as if he was trying desperately to place the pale, downy hair and lilac eyes, along with the uplifting foreign accent he spoke with. He sighed, defeated.

Alfred put an arm around the Englishman's shoulder and reintroduced him. "Arthur, this is Tino, and over there is Yao and Feliciano." The other two young men had joined them, shaking hands with their friend quickly.

"Good morning, Arthur. Hopefully we can get this project back on track with a full team," said the man known as Yao; although the words seemed to hold little emotion, the Chinese boy's soft smile met his eyes as they shook hands.

"Yao is in charge of this little finance project," Alfred added, hoping that his fiancé could keep up with the flood of information from the morning.

"Ve! Arthur, it's _wonderful_ to see you again!" the Italian man chirped, grabbing Arthur's hand and vigorously shaking it.

"Thank you, that's very kind of you," he replied. _He's a little out of his depth with all these people,_ Alfred thought, and decided it was time to leave him.

The other three had already returned to their monitors while the couple said goodbye for the day. "All right, Artie-"

"-Arthur-"

"-I've gotta get some work done today, so I'll take off. You all seem pretty intimidated by my presence anyway," Alfred said, offering an encouraging smile while ignoring the glares being fired at him (the team knew they were short compared to other employees). "Catch you at lunch. You know where to find me; call me on this number if you need anything, or if you're stuck, or if Yao's pushing you too hard-"

"Alfred, I'm not a child," the Brit growled, pushing him towards the elevators.

The American stepped into the box, then quickly leant out and planted a light kiss on the shorter boy's forehead. "Love ya!"

The barrage of insults was cut off by the doors sliding shut.

* * *

Even though he was tired after several hours of work, the Englishman had found that staring at a screen and doing repetitive tasks was as natural as breathing for him; although, when one thinks about it, breathing isn't exactly 'fun'. You have to do it to survive, because it sustains your existence, and the more of it you do the more oxygen you receive (or so it should go). It is a fact of life: you have to breathe and would be lost without it.

However, it was beyond him how anyone – even a machine-like routine worker like himself – could want to spend the rest of their life messing with imaginary numbers and tracking the endless stream of data that was business finances. For the first time in weeks, he felt as though he wasn't missing out on anything from his amnesia.

He glanced at the clock, then over to their slither of landscape between the bars of his cage, the other office buildings on the outside. It was a few minutes past five; soon he would be on his way home for a cheap take-away dinner and a good night's sleep. Thank God! It had been terribly awkward all day, with only a few words spoken on Arthur's part, mostly to ask questions on how to work the fancy computer programs – or at least fancy compared to what he remembered. _I bet they usually talk all day,_ he mused, looking over to the brunette Italian sat at the desk opposite his own; _that one and the Finn seem like the chatty sort._ After another check of the time he started closing everything down, clearing up his desk. "Uh, I guess I'll see you lot tomorrow, then," he said, his heart pace increasing from speaking up suddenly to a group of strangers.

While he waited for the lift in the hallway, he heard light footsteps behind him; he turned to find Tino smiling at him, and tried to place whether it was one of pity, or genuine happiness at seeing a friend back to reasonable health; Arthur had at least figured that he liked the other short man with his cheerful attitude and gentle patience, and it was very likely that the Finn knew him closely.

"Hey, Arthur: I don't suppose you want to catch up after work sometime? I guess Gilbert's already beaten me to it, knowing him, but it would be great to meet up!" he said, offering that same smile, then adding: "Just like old times."

The Brit was a little taken back; what could they possibly catch up on? He supposed it was just a polite way of asking to talk about the situation more and try to get back to normal within the group. Arthur _knew_ that he didn't want to repeat the almost embarrassing day.

"I'd love to, but I don't know when. We can sort something out and meet up."

It seemed that Tino was satisfied by his answer, and waved him off before heading back into the office area, giving Arthur just a couple of minutes before facing the loud, stupid, obnoxious – oh yes! Alfred had kissed him! _Well it's pay-back time, yank._ He gently rubbed his ribs as he schemed.

However, it was a quick ride to the third floor and Arthur had to settle for punching the American in the stomach since he didn't have time for plotting. "Dude! What the hell?" he groaned, scraping himself off the elevator floor, leaning against the back wall with one arm.

"That was for that sneaky kiss this morning!" he shouted back, folding his arms.

"Oh come on..."

"No, I won't come on. You had no right to do that, to show me up, to even lay a finger on me; don't do it again."

"Honhonhon~! Is someone getting feisty again?"

Arthur leapt half a metre into the air at the sound of the French accent and glared daggers at the source. Francis had joined them in the lift from the second floor and forced the Brit to squash closer to his fiancé – he trusted the idiot more than the frog. "What are _you_ doing here?" he snapped, narrowing his eyes as if it would make the newcomer burst into flames.

Francis clasped his hands over his heart, forcing a dramatic tone; "Oh, Arthur, you hurt me so! We are merely sharing this elevator with you, like every day before we leave work."

"Wait, we?"

"Hi, Arthur," someone whispered; the Brit looked over towards the closed doors and saw a third man in the small steel box that he hadn't even noticed. At first he seemed identical to Alfred, but little details began to poke through: longer, wavier hair; round-framed glasses that shielded lavender eyes; and of course, the low, relaxed voice that contrasted to an impossible extent of the other man.

"Uh... hello," was all he managed to get out.

Alfred slung an arm around him. "This is my brother, Matthew – you know: the one that I crawl to every time you hurt my feelings."

The Brit shot an acidic glare at his flatmate; for some reason, the idea that Alfred had someone else he could be around riled him. Not that he cared. Not at all. "Pleasure," he drawled, appreciating the doors opening on the final floor of the lift. The close proximity of the frog was making his blood boil, especially as the Frenchman whispered something in Matthew's ear to make him giggle; he'd always been quick to move onto another lover. To him, it had only been a couple of months since he was the one holding hands with Francis, and to see how easily he had been replaced urged him to get away before he said something out of line. Thankfully, Alfred was quickly pulling him away, saying something to the others about wanting to catch a TV show.

Arthur cast a final frown towards Matthew, but didn't manage to catch the Canadian's gaze.

* * *

18th June

"Arthur, get your ass over here! Gilbert's getting another round of drinks!"

"Another?" he laughed, sliding into the booth alongside the Dane. It was a good turnout, and the night was young; already the handful of young accountants was getting a bit tipsy.

It had taken almost an hour of negotiations between the 'happy couple' before the Englishman agreed to go out for drinks; Alfred's price was to do the dishes for a fortnight and to cook for a month (although for some reason the American seemed relieved about that part of the deal). Alfred was determined that getting out and taking part in a mass social gathering would be good for him and 'get him out of his dusty old shell'.

Tino sat across from him, wrapped up in the arms of one of Alfred's workmates – Berwald, was it? "Yeah, hee hee! You'd better get a drink down you quickly like me so that you can't be left as the designated driver." If his companion was irritated by the sneaky move it was impossible to tell; the giant man's face remained stony and impassive. Next to him was Feliciano, and a blonde man whom Arthur assumed was the 'Ludwig' that the little Italian was always chirping on about – he didn't say much either.

"Man, Tino, you're already half pissed!" Alfred laughed, squashing onto the seat as well and causing everyone to groan from the discomfort. Arthur didn't see the problem; at this rate half of them would be sprawled across or under the table in the next hour. "What have you been drinking?"

"What has he been drinking?" a heavy Russian accent said from somewhere in the middle of the group. "Only half of the bottle of vodka I ordered! The little ones are always the feistiest, da?"

"Move up, losers, or I'll spike your drinks!"

Before Arthur could snap at Gilbert for joking about something like that, the other side of the table squished further into the corner, forcing the Italian to sit on Ludwig's lap. He didn't know if everyone obeyed him because they were already tipsy or if they actually believed the threat. The albino slammed a pint of beer in front of him. "Drink up, Artie," he purred, perching on the corner of the seat.

"I swear to God if you've tampered with this..." he muttered into the glass, though his sensed deemed it safe and he took a long gulp.

"It wouldn't be the first time!" someone giggled.

Something registered in Arthur's mind and he recalled a night out similar to this one; the German had spiked everyone's drinks but had forgotten to leave his own glass out of the mix, leading to a night of hoarse singing and laughter and their inevitable removal from the premises. "Yeah, you're right; seeing me in a tiny apron once is one time too many, thanks." He could already feel himself loosening up, realising that he hadn't had a drink in a while because of his medication, but after six weeks of painkillers his ribs had healed considerably and he could enjoy himself again; he just hoped that he stayed relatively sober until one of the others was humiliated – seeing other people drunk was so much fun.

Alfred gave him a curious look. "You remember that? Out of all the times we went to the movies or on holiday or to a party, you remember getting wasted and dancing nearly nude on top of the table and being thrown out of the club?" The American shook his head, laughing into his drink. "You're a mystery to me, Arthur." However, he still smiled for the rest of the night.

It was around ten o'clock when Tino left. The Finn was nearly under the table by the time his boyfriend grumbled that 'en'gh 's en'gh', scooped the petite man over his shoulder and headed towards the door. None of them could contain their laughter when the drunkard grinned and shouted across the room, "Looks like I'm getting laid tonight, boys!"

"He's not the only one," Gilbert snorted, smirking at his blonde brother, who glared in return. Feliciano was still sprawled all over the immaculate accountant, sighing lightly between sips of wine and snippets of conversation with a Japanese man; Arthur had barely noticed him enclosed by the broad figures of Ludwig and Ivan, and he had barely spoken. He knew a little about him from Alfred, as the two of them worked next to each other in their department. Kiku had never quite grown up; he still played video games religiously and had an impressive collection of Anime, but that didn't mean that he wasn't an excellent adult worker. Despite being a bit of an oddball around the others – a trait that had made Alfred determined to become his friend, thanks to the American's hero-ego – he was incredibly efficient, often finishing the desired work an hour early and thus having extra time to review his statistics, checking and double-checking for errors or any means of improvement. His client response was excellent, even though he seemed distant to other people at first. A man of his word, and dedicated to completing all his tasks with 110% effort.

And it was Kiku who suggested the karaoke, with a sly glint in his eye. He had only had a single, small drink, but it was enough to coax his mischievous side out of hiding while still keeping a level head on his shoulders; however, the more 'adventurous' men were way over their recommended intake for the night and jumped at the opportunity to show off, not realising how stupid they would look.

Andersen and Gilbert went first, demanding 'an awesome song' and performing it perfectly off-key and out of timing; "Britney Spears never sounded more wonderful," Arthur yelled to the others.

"_Hit me baby one more time!"_ screeched the duo for the final time, immune to the boos and salted nuts being thrown at them by other spectators. Their friends clapped with false enthusiasm, unable to stop howling in laughter at the terrible performance.

As a few other customers took their turns spreading headaches, Ludwig and Feliciano also took their leave; from the looks of him the Italian would fall asleep any second. Another round of drinks was bought, courtesy of Alfred, although the American didn't buy one for himself; when Arthur questioned him he just said that he wanted to stay sober enough to sing properly. The comment made the Brit's stomach drop. _He's going to sing?_ He took another long drink and tried to prepare for the embarrassment.

Kiku asked him what was wrong as Alfred slipped off to mount the stage. "Oh dear," the boy sighed, shaking his head sympathetically.

"This is going to be soooo humiliating!" Arthur whimpered, hiding his face in his hands. Alfred was going to dedicate a song to him, or point him out as he sang the lyrics, or _something_! He was pulled into a tight, drunken hug by Andersen, too terrified to tell him to let go. The eyes of his colleagues bore into him, obviously waiting for his reaction.

But Alfred did none of those awful things, though the message of the song was clear as day to the Brit. And his voice... well, it wasn't angelic or professional by any means, but it wasn't half bad. Now he understood why the idiot had kept off the drinks, not wanting to slur his words, but that didn't stop Arthur from finishing his own glass as well as the Dane's as he listened to the song echo through his mind.

_"I hate feeling like this,_

_I'm tired of trying to fight this,_

_I'm asleep and all I dream of,_

_Is waking to you;_

_Tell me that you will listen,_

_Your touch is what I'm missing,_

_And the more I hide the more I realise,_

_I'm slowly losing you;_

_Comatose,_

_I'll never wake up without an overdose,_

_Of you;_

_I don't wanna live, I don't wanna breathe,_

'_Less I feel you next to me,_

_You take the pain I feel,"_

As he sang, it slowly occurred to Arthur that he wasn't the only one struggling; his hazy mind couldn't get any deeper than that in its drunken state, but even so he realised that Alfred was hurting too, hurting from losing the man he loved. But still, wasn't forgetting everything about your own life much worse? _I don't know,_ he admitted to himself, sinking further into his hands as guilt burned away at his chest. He could just jump into bed with him, to try and love him physically at least – and they were already tipsy, so that would be easy enough – but he knew that he would never forgive himself. He wanted to marry out of _love_, not out of a promise that a different person made.

The worst part that there was no way he could convey those thoughts to Alfred as he sat down next to him. "How did I do?" he asked, smiling in that innocent way that meant he was up to no good. Arthur just shrugged.

"Decent enough, I guess."

"Where the hollë did you learn to sing like that, Al?" Gilbert demanded, pointing an accusing finger at the American from across the table. "D'ya sell your soul or something?"

"I didn't learn, I suppose I'm just amazing. Oof!" He curled over clutching his stomach after Arthur had elbowed him.

"Arrogant git," the Englishman muttered with a smirk.

"Shuddup," he quipped, flinging his arms around Arthur and nuzzling his hair. "You're just sulking. And anyway, I guess I got it from my mom. What time is it?"

"Quarter-to-eleven," Arthur replied with a yawn; it was their signal to head home. Thankfully, they were only a short walk from the bar and could be in bed by the hour (or on the settee in Alfred's case). Staggering to his feet, leaning on the American for support, Arthur said goodbye to the others until Monday.

* * *

19th June

The dull light from the ominous London sky was not enough to give Alfred a headache, but the ringing of the phone was pushing it. He'd only had one or two drinks last night and so his body had filtered out most of the poison, but he was still left feeling groggy and utterly shattered. He recognised the grinding voice of Arthur's mother leaving a message; he responded in the usual fashion: by doing nothing. When the grating noise stopped he scrabbled his hand across the carpet in search of his glasses and slotted them onto his nose, sighed and forced himself out of his warm den of blankets and pillows.

A quick look through the cracked open door revealed that Arthur was still asleep, undisturbed by the light thanks to the thick, blacked-out curtains that only the bedroom had. Closing the door with a gentle click, Alfred wandered over to the answering machine and listened to the message.

"_Hello, Arthur, it's your mum. I'm reminding you about dinner, since you seem to forget everything, so there's no excuse if you don't turn up. Scott can do things without me telling him twice so I don't know why you can't-"_

"Shit!" Alfred winced, leaning in closer to get the rest of her ranting. It had completely slipped his mind that they were having dinner with the Kirklands that night; it wasn't like they had ignored her or didn't care – _well, maybe_ – but they had a bit more on their plate than usual, what with a little medical condition called _freakin' amnesia_!

"_-Anyway, make sure you bring some booze with you, and play down all that gay stuff for God's sake, or Simon will throw a fit. All right, bye."_

The American just glared at the blinking lights of the machine, then headed to the bedroom to wake his boyfriend. Arthur cried out when he flung the curtains open and pulled the bed covers back. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing, you wanker? I'm hung-over!"

"Geddup, Arthur, your mom called," he replied, grabbing a pair of shirts from the wardrobe and chucking one at the man in bed, not concerned about creasing in the slightest. He hurriedly took off his t-shirt form the night before and ran a comb through his hair.

A groan issued from somewhere in the mass of duvet. "Oh God, we're having dinner aren't we? We're going to be late, and I'll never hear the end of it."

"Late?" Alfred scoffed, checking his watch. "It's only half-eleven now; we've got hours yet."

He yelped as a he was sharply smacked around the back of the head. "Idiot – when my mum says 'tea time' she means dinner, and when she says 'dinner' she means lunch, and lunch is served at one o'clock on the dot at my house. Did she say anything about her boyfriend?"

"Oh, that Irish prick? Yeah, and we need to bring him offerings of alcohol or else he'll throw us two queers into the Atlantic." He huffed, remembering their last encounter with the asshole. He wasn't exactly a homophobe, it was more of a case that he thought being gay meant being unmanly; it was an insult to Alfred, son of a proud ex-soldier, and it didn't help that Arthur _still_ had a strange unicorn addiction. Last Christmas his brothers had got him a pair of pink unicorn boxers – where they had conjured them from was still unknown – and not only had the Brit accepted them, he smiled and said 'thank you'.

Simon was _not_ happy, which led the American to believe that he had something to do with the failed prank.

"I'm gonna have a quick shower while you make your first breakfast of the month," Arthur said with a smirk, bounding over to the bathroom.

Alfred smirked back. "My pleasure."

* * *

To say that the council flat was cramped was an understatement. Both battered settees were creaking from the strain of seating three people; the armchair was occupied by the king of the castle, leaving the late comers to sit on the floor while the lunch was finishing off in the oven. Arthur didn't miss life in the decrepit shack one bit; too many bad memories haunted him here, from his parent's divorce to the constant torment and teasing that his brothers dished out to him. Oh, and those years of hiding away from the one and only Alfred Jones after long days at college filled with harassment.

Even so, he'd swap a Saturday afternoon from seven years ago for this _any day_. His mum's boyfriend was glaring at him from the corners of his eyes, occasionally swigging from a one of the bottles of beer they'd brought along – beer was considered to be masculine, right? Meanwhile, the git's eighteen-year-old son kept poking him in the head with his toe every two minutes, and he was getting sick of it.

"So, what are you two up to with work these days," Scott asked, clearly uninterested as he lit a cigarette. Arthur didn't want to answer because he knew where it would lead: his mother would nag him for not being as good as his oldest brother, who was almost done with his training to be a surgeon. How the blasted git had got so far, he didn't know; Arthur was the child who had kept his head down at school and read books instead of melting his brain watching television, not Scott. If he spoke up about this unbalance his mother would tell him that he 'doesn't apply himself as much', hinting that he was 'still' slacking off. It was funny how her constant criticism had etched its way into his mind so deep that not even his memory loss could erase it.

Luckily, Alfred took the bullet for him. "Artie's team has been working on the finances for a huge publishing company; it's nearly finished, too, after all the hard work they've put in. I just deal with people who have more on their credit card than in their bank."

"Such as shame," the middle-aged woman sighed, getting off the sofa. Tom and Patrick quickly took up her vacant spot, preventing one of the couple from sitting in her place. "You could be doing something to actually _help_ people, Arthur, like Scott. Even Tom and Patrick have a better job than you. Gather round, everyone."

_Says the woman who didn't go to university so she could have kids, _he thought to himself, sitting down on a corner seat at the table; two spare chairs had to be added to accommodate eight people. Naturally, he had one of the rickety old things that were usually found on patios rather than at dinner tables. Scott – who had no doubt missed pestering his little brother while he studied up in Scotland, earning him an irritating twang – sat next to him, smirking like a cat that got the cream, ready to press his buttons. Tom sat on the other side of him, ready with his own infuriating Welsh accent after teaching in Cardiff for several years. Luckily Patrick was busy talking with Simon's son about all things Irish on the other end of the table.

"Well then, what's all this with our wee baby brother thinking he's a teenager still?" Scott asked, taking a drag on his cigarette. Arthur rolled his eyes, realising too late that he was just proving them right.

"I got amnesia, you dozy pratt," he replied quietly, not wanting to catch his mother's attention as he cursed. She treated him like a child, too.

"I heard he pushed you," Tom said, jabbing his thumb at Alfred.

The American looked up in shock. "I did _not_."

"Aw come on, you know as well as we do what fun it is to wind 'im up, am I right Tom?"

"Yeah, little brother goes so adorably red in the face when you find his soft spot. Though you'd know all about that..."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Arthur cried, swinging for his brother.

"_Boys_," their mother warned, before turning her attention back to her partner.

Tom waited a few seconds before leaning over and whispering, "It means you're the one taking it in the arse in this relationship."

It took a couple of minutes to change the seating arrangement after Arthur head-butted the older man from across the table; Simon kept muttering about manners and respect and order. The older Irishman asked the couple a few questions once he settled down again, to which Arthur tried to answer in a simple yes or no or maybe, until he couldn't hold his tongue any longer.

Simon had been brewing a sharp remark for a while now, as he always did. "So, Arthur, you've basically got a small flat, a crappy car and a boring job, with no hope of having kids of your own one day. Well done, son."

"I'm not your son, you bloody _eejit_."

"Arthur!" his mother shouted. He knew that mocking the Irish accent would rile them up.

"But he's not! No one is, thanks to you, mum; nothing is good enough, not our dad, not me. You don't care about my happiness, only your own, and you try and sound big and impressive but you've got nothing to show for yourself. You just live off our achievements – not mine, of course, because I'm _incapable_ of doing anything _useful_ with my life. On top of that you're too wrapped up in yourself to even come and visit me in hospital after I could have _died from concussion_!" he yelled, springing forth all the thoughts and feelings he had kept bottled up as a teenager.

Simon stood up, making the young man flinch. "Don't you dare talk to her that way," he growled.

Arthur simply flipped him off. "Fuck you, Simon, you damn alcoholic." With that, he stormed off from the table in search of the only sanctuary he knew: his bedroom. Behind him he heard one of his brothers snicker something, then cry out in pain, but he had already slammed and locked the door before he could find out what had happened.

He slid down the peeling white-washed wood, exhausted from the emotional outburst. He only half meant most of the things he said; it was a lot more complicated when his parents split up, but he had still placed the blame on his mum when he was a child, seeing as his dad protected him from his brothers most of the time and he lost that shield of love when he suddenly left one night; the daft bat loved him – probably – but she just hurt him so badly with her comments over the years, leading him to believe that he wasn't good enough for anything and helping him strike out into his punk side; and it was true that she boasted about her boys, but in the end, hadn't she raised them on her own? One of them was going to be a surgeon, another was a mechanic, the third an English teacher and the youngest was an accountant - and no matter what anyone said about the job it required a lot of mathematical skill and logic. All four of her children had clawed their way out of the poverty trap thanks to her feeding, clothing and sheltering them all on her own.

Looking around the tiny box of a bedroom, he thought how sad it looked now that Simon's son, Dermot, had taken over it. The band posters that he remembered so vividly were replaced with those of women and cars, while his old bookshelf had been cleared of various fantasy novels and unicorn trinkets and replaced with porn magazines; beer cans and dirty laundry littered the floor. It was the very image of a 'manly' room, just like that git wanted.

He hadn't been entirely fair on Simon, either. The man drank a lot, but he wasn't addicted, and he certainly wasn't a bad person – he merely had a closed mind when it came to sexuality. But he was a hard-working, law-abiding man who would protect his mum with his life, he was sure; God knew she needed it in the rough estate area. Though none that stopped him from feeling hated by the man.

_Why couldn't I forget those years instead of the ones where I was happy?_

There was a gentle knock at the door. "Piss off," he snapped, wiping his eyes when he realised he was crying.

"Come on, Artie, let me in. I punched Scott in the face. It was awesome; I wish you'd seen it." Reluctantly, Arthur opened the door and let the American in. He joined him on the worn carpet and leant against the door, blocking off any outsiders. "Feel any better?" When the Brit shook his head he was pulled into a tight hug, accepting the kisses to his head; they lifted his spirits a little.

"Oh God, I can't go out there," he cringed, "I acted like a spoilt teenager."

"No you didn't, and you don't have to go back out if you don't want to. We can just go home if you want." Arthur nodded, eager to be free of the painful afternoon.

"I should say sorry," he muttered, not quite ready to reappear yet. "It's gonna be awkward."

Alfred told him not to worry and to let him do the talking, so he reluctantly followed him out into the narrow hallway, clutching his hand the whole time. The American stood in the open, letting his boyfriend hide behind him a little. "Sorry about this whole deal, we're gonna take off. Thanks for the food, Mrs Kirkland, it's almost as good as my mom's!" With that, he shoved Arthur towards the front door, waving goodbye.

He blinked his green eyes a few times, shell shocked from the quick exit and final rude remark, only coming round when Alfred squeezed his hand and lead him towards the flight of stairs. The American's grip intensified to an almost painful level as they descended.

"You're never going to trust me with stairs again, are you?" Arthur said lightly, attempting to shrug off the heavy atmosphere. The idiot just grinned. As they neared ground level he spoke up again. "Look, I know you want to try and get back to where we used to be, Alfred, so... why don't we try dating sometime?"

He gasped in surprise as the excitable boy picked him up and spun him round. "Seriously? That would be great, Artie!"

He didn't bother to tell him to not call him Artie.

* * *

26th June

"Read to me?"

Alfred gazed up at the green eyes of his date; they were the same colour as the leaves on the trees as the sun shone through them, light and lush and fresh. The grass was growing a bit long in the miniature park; it tickled his lower back where his shirt had rolled up, but it felt so squeaky smooth and cool against his hands when he ran his fingers through it. His chest felt heavy from the intense heat of the sunny day, a wonderful contrast to last weekend's weather but uncomfortably warm if you were in the light. At least the canopy of elm, oak and sycamore trees shaded them, casting dappled light over Arthur's open book.

"Alfred, you really wouldn't be interested in hearing this stuff," the Brit sighed, grabbing another biscuit from their picnic. Alfred had made them, using one of his mom's recipes and lots of sugar. He tilted his head to read the cover. _'The Twenty-Three Tales by Beatrix Potter'_ shimmered in gold print on the old leather-bound book.

"Well, it's not really about what you're saying," he replied softly, laying his head back on his thigh. "I just want to hear your voice."

Arthur raised a large eyebrow in question – God, those things were strange – then returned his attention to the novel. In a low, cheerful voice fit for any children's show, he read aloud the words in front of him. "_Tom was very naughty, and he scratched."_

"Ha ha! What?"

Arthur flicked him on the forehead. "It's the 'Tale of Tom Kitten', moron. Try to keep up. _Mrs. Tabitha dressed Moppet and Mittens in clean pinafores and tuckers; and then she took all sorts of elegant and uncomfortable clothes out of a chest of drawers, in order to dress up her son Thomas._

"_Tom Kitten was very fat- _oh, he's just like you!" Alfred glared at him with a set jaw. "–_and he had grown; several buttons burst off. His mother sewed them on again. When the three kittens were ready, Mrs. Tabitha unwisely turned them out into the garden, to be out of the way while she made hot buttered toast. 'Now keep your frocks clean, children! You must walk on your hind legs. Keep away from the dirty ash-pit, and from Sally Henny Penny, and from the pig-stye and the Puddle-Ducks.'"_

The American listened contently, azure eyes trained on his boyfriend's pale, delicate face, watching his light-pink lips move as he flowed through the enchanting words of the story. He could see why he still read the children's books; they were calming and simple, and often had intricately painted pictures inside. It made him feel like a kid again, safe and secure in the arms of a loved one.

He couldn't help but chuckle when Arthur made his voice higher for one of the girl kittens. _"'Come! Mr. Drake Puddle-Duck,' said Moppet – 'Come and help us to dress him! Come and button up Tom!' Mr. Drake Puddle-Duck advanced in a slow sideways manner, and picked up the various articles. But he put them on _himself_! They fitted him even worse than Tom Kitten. 'It's a very fine morning!' said Mr. Drake Puddle-Duck._

"_And he and Jemima and Rebeccah Puddle-Duck set off up the road, keeping step – pit pat, paddle pat! pit pat, waddle _– stop laughing, you little sod!"

"I'm sorry, Arthur," Alfred gasped between fits, "It's just the whole 'pit pat paddle' thing; what the hell, man?"

The Brit smiled almost fondly and continued reading. _"Then Tabitha Twitchit came down the garden and found her kittens on the wall with no clothes on."_

"Uh oh."

"_She pulled them off the wall, smacked them-"_ Arthur flicked the younger man's forehead again for emphasis, _"-and took them back to the house. 'My friends will arrive in a minute, and you are not fit to be seen; I am affronted,' said Tabitha Twitchit. She sent them upstairs; and I am sorry to say she told her friends that they were in bed with the measles; which was not true._

"_Quite the contrary; they were not in bed:_not_in the least. Somehow there were very extraordinary noises over-head, which disturbed the dignity and repose of the tea party. And I think that someday I shall have to make another, larger, book, to tell you more about Tom Kitten!_

"_As for the Puddle-Ducks – they went into a pond. The clothes came off directly, because there were no buttons. And Mr. Drake Puddle-Duck, and Jemima and Rebeccah, have been looking for them ever since. The end._ What are you looking at me like that for, you idiot?"

Alfred lifted a hand to gently caress his face, overjoyed that he wasn't batted away immediately, and smiled lovingly. "Thank you," he whispered. Finally, the Englishman caught up and removed his hand.

"You're welcome," he mumbled, snapping the book shut and putting it away. Although he was scared of frightening his love away, Alfred dared to ask the question that had been nagging at him anyway.

"So, has this been nice? You've always wanted to spend an afternoon in the garden and we finally have. I think it's been a wonderful date." He stretched out on the grass, soaking up the rare heat that he was feeling.

There was no reply for a while, which worried him, until Arthur found the right words. "It's been lovely."

Alfred sat up, turning around to face him. "Does that mean... there'll be a second date?"

He shrunk away from the scowl that met him. "You don't give up easily, do you Alfred?"

"Nope."

"Then I guess we can go out again sometime," Arthur replied, packing up the remaining snacks; Alfred would make sure that they were gone before the morning. "Why don't you take me out for some of the finest grease-riddled American cuisine in the world while we're staying with your parents?"

* * *

**Yay, bar scene with drunk characters! The song is 'Comatose' by Skillet – that right there is awesomesauce, my friend. I wanted to do a song but it took me a while of flicking through my iTunes before I found this baby.**

**Oh, and I guess I should just note that I'm not keeping track of the day of the week in this – I'm simply plucking random dates out of the air. I don't think anyone will be keeping track of it so I'll leave it like that.**

**Here's a list of British insult words – use to your heart's content. It's kind of tragic that I know nearly all of these, and use them frequently: ** septicscompanion showcat. php? cat=insults

**And here is where I got the words from the book: ** www. gutenberg files/ 14837/14837-h/ **Beatrix Potter is my childhood. End of. Can anyone else picture Arthur reading these stories out loud? I think I've found a new way to get to sleep at night...**

**Anywho, again, reviews, follows and favourites will give me some motivation to keep working at this. I've got few ideas lined up for July, but August is looking a bit empty. Summer fun, in general – and don't worry, there won't be any more office related crap unless it's important to the plot. (So yeah, a couple more entries with the office then.)**

**Hmmm... who on Earth could have a birthday early on in July? ...**


	3. July

**What's this? No author's note before the story? Let's fix that. ;)**

**Thank you for the reviews, follows and favourites I've been getting - it means a lot to me. Enjoy!**

* * *

4th July

It seemed that Arthur was getting the hang of dodging between guests in their apartment. Alfred watched him, trying to be endearing instead of amused, but eventually gave in and laughed at the stuffy Brit's terrified expression between the taller, broader men that had taken over the living room. "Geez, Artie, if you need an escort through that crowd I could always help ya!"

"Sod off, yank," came the sharp reply. Alfred just laughed it off.

"Ah ah, Artie, you don't get to talk to me like that today. And why is that?" He leant towards is flatmate, who sighed and recited the line he was doomed to repeat another thousand times that day.

"Because it's the hero's birthday, and you are the hero," he said flatly, picking up another try of soda and heading back into the sea of people once more. The party wasn't anything special; just a few – which meant a lot – of the guys from work were over for food and drinks. It wasn't as good as being a kid, but then again nothing ever was. Alfred thought back to various birthdays throughout his childhood: sleepovers, theme parks, camping trips, that one time that he had to have a joint party with Matt... it had always been so much fun, probably because he didn't have to worry about paying for it.

Nowadays, this was all he could afford. Oh yeah, he'd pick his best pals out of the apartment in a flash and play paintball or something, if only he and Arthur weren't watching every penny in their bank accounts. Their pay-checks were already on a slow rise even after just two years of work, but with the mortgage, bills and the monthly deposits for the wedding – which he was _still_ determined that would go ahead as planned – they didn't have two hundred pounds to throw away on a single day of fun.

So, the word had been spread that a party would be going on at Alfred and Arthur's place, and the only ticket needed was to bring some alcohol.

And it seemed to have worked, only a couple of his colleagues were getting a bit too loud and slurring their words and would have to be thrown out early to keep the peace with their neighbours. Berwald was watching Tino like a hawk after the state he had slipped into at the bar, which meant that the little firecracker wouldn't start shouting anytime soon.

_Speaking of firecrackers,_ Alfred thought with a grin, remembering the birthday present to himself. Seeing as they had already asked the guests to bring drinks, it didn't seem fair (according to Arthur, at least) to ask them for presents and/or money on top of that, so the American had indulged and bought the one necessity for any 4th July: fireworks.

And it was getting dark, too!

After some pushing and shoving and consequential apologies, the birthday boy managed to hop onto the coffee table in the middle of the living room. He stuck two fingers between his lips and whistled sharply. "Listen up, guys! It's dark outside and that means it's time for the show! No booze on the roof, and keep it down because there are people trying to sleep. If you're drunk, GTFO. Thanks!"

It took him and Arthur almost an hour to kick out anyone who wasn't behaving, but eventually it was a small group of around ten close friends that followed him up to the roof patio of the townhouse. He felt a tap on his shoulder on the last flight of stairs. It was Gilbert. "So, where's your brother?"

"Oh them?" Alfred chuckled, unlocking the door, "Well, Mattie gets real bitchy this time of year since I apparently take away all the attention from _his_ birthday, so he goes running to our parents and Francis joined him this time." He noticed the Prussian glaring at him. "What?"

"Well, you did announce your party ages before his actual birthday..."

"Oh come on! It's Independence Day, which means that today is at least _twice_ as important as the first. It's not like he has a country's national holiday on the same day he was born, right?"

Arthur barged past him, emptied a tin of chocolates and put all the fireworks inside. "I'm not even going to bother to correct you. Alfred, are you sure this is even legal? What about planes?"

The American just waved him off, helping himself to the pile of candy on the tiles. "Please – this will be over in ten minutes. What's the 4th July without a few fireworks? And what's with the box?"

Arthur hesitated for a moment before passing over the box of matches; the American resented how the older man didn't trust him to behave like an adult, let alone sleep in the same bed. "So that they don't get lit by a stray spark and kill us all. Put the lid back on each time, will you?"

Finally, Alfred got his own little display of red and white fireworks. Even a couple of the more sober partygoers had a go lighting the rockets; it seemed that Ivan was a little _too_ familiar with pyrotechnics. "Thanks to a wonderful youth of playing with explosives," he had said with a cold smile; he didn't even run for cover, only sauntered away as if he was daring the little tube of gunpowder to blow up in his face. The rocket only ran screaming into the air once it was out of the Russian's reach.

Somewhere amongst the chaos, ice cream, soda and apple pie was passed around; Alfred managed to polish off one of the deserts by himself, defending his not-addiction to sugar with a stubborn, "I'm the birthday boy!"

It was somewhere between eleven and midnight when everyone left; Gilbert had conveniently forgotten his wallet and so Arthur had to pay for his cab. Alfred stood in the living room, looking around at the scattered packets and cans and bottles and decided that he could just have a ten minute rest before he started cleaning up. Unfortunately for Arthur, he fell asleep on the couch.

* * *

16th July

Arthur stood facing the gelding with apprehension. He didn't like the evil glint in its eye, or how it snatched its head up and away whenever he attempted to stroke its nose. The thing was horrid! Huge teeth and heavy feet and twitching muscles; but Alfred was inexplicably fond of horses, and would stop at nothing to get him riding.

As soon as they had landed in Dallas, Texas, USA, the other side of the Pond, Daniel Jones was waiting for them outside the airport to drive them out of the city and a several dozen miles towards the dusty ranch. After being stationed in Britain for several years, he had returned to his home town once he retired and finally settled down for good, along with his Canadian wife, Grace. Old snippets of memory were stirred during the car journey – a recognised name, maybe a repeated comment – as they rolled through the boiling, scrubby landscape. It would be unbearable without the air-conditioning inside the car, though it was still a pleasant change from the groggy London smog.

After a hearty meal and a good night's sleep in separate rooms, their body clocks were adjusted and their week of holiday could begin. But apparently the fastest way to get around the semi-desert farmland was on horseback, which had led Alfred to force some lessons upon the wary Brit.

The night before, when they had been discussing riding, Daniel asked: "Have you never been on a horse before, son?"

Arthur felt embarrassed to say no – which was ridiculous! – so he answered: "Well, I had a couple of donkey rides at Blackpool as a child." At least the sixteen-hand horses and copper horizon were a step up from cramped, chilly holidays up north.

"Arthur, are ya' gonna stare at the horse all day or get on?"

The man in question gingerly gathered the reins, unsure how he would ever be able to clamber on top of the giant in the egg box-like body protector and heavy hard-hat. After a moment of thought, he jammed his foot in the stirrup and pushed up; but he felt his leg start to slide underneath the animal before he could swing his leg over and got back on the ground. "I can't," he huffed.

The American shrugged, and closed in on him. "I c'n give you a leg up-"

"No you don't!" With a quick, graceful bounce, Arthur all but threw himself on top of the animal, who stomped one of its back legs as he dragged his right foot over its hindquarters. "Honestly, any excuse for you to lay your hands on me and you'll take it." Alfred just laughed.

"You really don't trust me, do ya'?"

"No. And I hate this beast."

"Nah, Shandy won't let anything happen to ya'! An' if we're gonna get out for that second date you'd better get used to being in the saddle for more th'n an hour."

Arthur groaned. _Not this dating business again!_ He was getting sick of the boy pestering him about it; times, places, activities – none of it mattered! He only agreed to another 'date' to humour him. Sure, the afternoon in the park hadn't been bad, but it was just a couple of hours out in the sunshine, not holding hands or acting lovesick.

He tugged at the tight strap under his chin. "God almighty, it's got to be pushing thirty degrees out here."

Alfred looked at him like he had a chicken's head. "What the devil are ya' on, Artie? It's at least ninety; it ain't winter for months."

The Brit swung at him, missed by a mile, and only managed to stay in the saddle by grabbing a handful of the mane in front of him. "Idiot! Some of us work in Celsius!"

When Alfred merely shrugged, unimpressed, he bared his teeth like the animal beneath him as Alfred ordered him to walk on, without even telling him _how_; he could be a right idiot at times. Still, after a moment the Brit found himself squeezing the brute forward into a lazy walk, which suited him fine seeing as the damn western saddle was so bloody uncomfortable! But the horse found a mind of its own and walked straight into the corner, refusing to budge.

"I wish I had a riding crop," he hissed, digging his heels in again and yanking on the left reign. Alfred gave him a horrified look.

"Hey! He's just not used to ya', that's all. He's fine with me."

"Oh yeah? Well you're not the one sitting atop a disobedient nag in the blistering heat wearing a full body cast with no riding experience!" The sad look on the American's face made him drop the reigns completely with a groan. "You've already taught me, haven't you?"

Alfred finally managed to coax the gelding back onto the track. "I thought if I put you on a horse then you'd remember learning. But hey, ya' got him moving, so you can still ride even if you don't remember learning."

"And stop with that ridiculous cowboy accent – it doesn't make you any 'cooler'."

"Please, Artie. You'll be talking like this too by the end a' week."

"Stop calling me 'Artie'!"

"Anyway, dontcha' remember any of our old rides together?" Alfred asked, gazing up at him with a half-hearted smile. "Nothin' at all?"

Arthur thought – _really_ thought – yet he couldn't picture any times that he had ridden. It _felt_ familiar; the live warmth that penetrated through the leather of the saddle; the constant elastic tug on the reins as he held them; the near crippling fear that gripped his heart icily. When he had hopped onto the back of the animal he had disregarded all his instincts _screaming_ at him to stop. Horses were just too big – he'd trade them for a donkey on a wild, salty beach any day. His mind just kept whispering to him, _you're going to fall off; you're going to fall off!_ He let out a shuddering breath. "Well, I suppose it's kind of familiar... No, I'm just thinking too hard."

The American shrugged. "All right, 'was worth a shot. Now I wanna see a trot outa ya."

* * *

It had been a long time since he had seen such a perfect night sky; London's constant golden glow blanketed almost all pinpricks of starlight on the rare occasion that the sky cleared – the most that Alfred could ever remember seeing was seven. Seven. Out of billions. But he'd grown used to it over time, from growing up in the suburbs to living on the university campus to sharing a townhouse in the city; the sky didn't glitter at night, there was never meant to be pitch-blackness all around you. And yet, he felt so at home under the hazy streaks of the Milky Way and countless constellations.

"There's another one," Arthur said suddenly, pointing above their heads on the itchy hillside. He dropped his arm straight away, realising that it was useless to try and point out the shooting stars.

Alfred shrugged, returning his gaze to the heavens. "There'll be plenty more, 'n' satellites, too." It was a few minutes later that he spoke up again, though it felt much shorter, as if they had lapsed time in their own little world. "I used to be crazy about space when I was a kid," he whispered, following the path of two dots that were travelling across the sky perpendicularly, "I wanted to be an astronaut and everythin'. But when we moved over to England I couldn't see the stars anymore. So I gave up."

The two satellites crossed paths in the sky before blinking into darkness. "Is that why you took sports and science? To train for NASA?" Arthur asked with a small grin.

"Not really – I took those 'cause I was good at 'em, thanks to an obsessive childhood. Shootin' star!" He laughed lightly, glowing on the inside from old memories resurfacing; he'd spent long, lonely summer nights sitting by his bedroom window, staring through the glass barrier at the dazzling diamonds above and wondering how far the inky pool stretched. _And now there's finally someone to share it with,_ he thought, recalling the reason he had brought Arthur out for stargazing.

"Sure is romantic out here," he murmured, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The Brit gave a startled cry when Alfred leant over him on all fours, brushing his fingers through the thinner man's pale hair. Arthur stared up with a frown.

"Get off me, you git," he snarled, bringing an arm up to swipe at him. Alfred caught the wrist firmly but gently and moved it back to the ground beside the Englishman's head. He dove in for a kiss, gently meeting his love's sensitive lips despite how Arthur kept trying to twist his head away. "I said let go!"

_What's his problem?_ "Arthur, relax! I'm not going to hurt ya!" With his spare hand he held the Brit's face still, attempting to loosen him up and get him to enjoy the kissing. He completely forgot that he possessed a second hand, which quickly punched him in the stomach, causing him to draw back with an 'oof!'. Arthur didn't let up; he just kept hitting him, bringing his other limb into the mix as soon as it was free, striking the American across the face for good measure.

Finally, as Alfred lay curled up on the ground protecting his torso, Arthur stood up and plucked his jacket from the ground. "I knew you were trouble from the start," he muttered, pulling his arm through the sleeve. "You're only after one thing, stalking me and setting up this whole farce just to jump me in the outback where I can't call for help." Alfred cried out in surprise when the boot connected with his backside. "I'll be gone by morning."

"Artie... Artie, wait!" he called, staggering to his feet and racing after the Englishman who was already storming back towards the ranch. He leapt into his path and held up his hands. "I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking, except maybe that you'd remember- God, I wasn't going to go any further!"

Arthur sidestepped him and carried on. "Right, sure, I believe you," he mocked, "How would I know? Some _stranger_ just pinned me down and- and- ...assaulted me! Get stuffed, yank!"

The rest of the journey home repeated the same way; Alfred insisted that he didn't mean to upset him, that he would never harm him or push him too far, while Arthur stated with increasing volume that you simply couldn't _do_ that to someone, that he had no right, that he hated his guts and would be throwing him out of the apartment. Thankfully, it wasn't too late and the Jones' were still up watching TV when they burst in.

Grace looked over the back of the couch, startled. "Is everything all right?" she asked, her voice wavering. Arthur glared at the American boy.

"Everything's fine, ma'am, but I'm going to bed. Goodnight." The stomping of feet up the stairs and the slamming of the guestroom's door was the end of the argument. Alfred sank to the floor in the living room.

He shook his head as his mom knelt beside him. "I'm so stupid; I was going way too fast. But I just wanted him to love me..." The woman pulled him into a tight hug, completely oblivious to the events of the night but still so supportive. "He's never going to forgive me."

* * *

17th July

After several restless hours of tossing and turning in bed, planning how he would arrange his belongings in his suitcase, and how he would go about ridding the American from his life, Arthur finally simmered down enough to accept that it was pointless to jet off back to London; he still had five days of his holiday left, and he was going to bloody well enjoy it!

Aside from the whole Alfred business, that is.

The Jones' wisely left him to wallow in bed until almost eleven, when he finally guilt-tripped himself into going downstairs so that his hosts weren't worried or kept waiting. On his way to the kitchen, there was no sign of the young American; _good, I don't want to look at him._ There was still a burning sensation in his stomach that refused to be quenched by any apologies that Alfred had made, was making, or would make.

Grace must have heard him yawn, since she looked over her shoulder as he slipped into one of the chairs at the table. "Oh, good morning Arthur. Would you like some pancakes? You won't get them better than this, the Canadian way." She stood, pan in hand, and a bottle of maple syrup in the other.

"Why not?" Arthur replied in what he hoped was a cheery manner; he was desperate to hide his sickening mood from the innocent lady; it wasn't her fault that her son – her _step_-son – was too randy for his own good.

Alfred didn't appear in all the time it took him to eat his breakfast, get showered and dress himself; a twinge worked its way into his heart, which he refused to believe was worry. _Still, it couldn't hurt to ask, right?_

"Um... Grace, do you know where Alfred is?" he asked, biting his lip. The woman looked at him easily from her spot on the settee next to him, apparently unconcerned.

"Knowing that boy he'd probably been in the stables all morning," she sighed, sipping her coffee. "You're still going on the ride with him and Daniel, right? I mean, while I don't mean to pry..."

_Oh, here we go..._

"...well, Alfred can do stupid things, but he wouldn't hurt someone on purpose; least of all someone he cares so much about." She set down the cup and straightened out her floral skirt. "So, even if you don't fully make up after whatever happened last night, at least don't hate him. Please?"

Arthur sat with his mug of tea, completely dumfounded. How could he promise something like that to a stranger? It was none of her damn business, anyway! And yet... he liked Grace; she was everything that his own mother had never been: cuddly, optimistic, supportive. She openly admitted that the yank made bad decisions a little too often, but that didn't falter her faith in him. If someone as lovely as the middle-aged Canadian could see that Alfred's good points outshone the negatives, couldn't he?

In short: no.

But that didn't mean he wasn't willing to try, although he told himself it was more for her benefit as a concerned mother than to salvage their tattered relationship.

However, once he was outside in the hazy breeze of Texas air, and caught sight of the American in question, his anger blossomed all over again. Those muscles – which he hadn't eyed weeks ago – had been used to pin him into the dirt, while that sweet, innocent smile that he wore as he slid the bridle over the nag's head had been directed at himself a mere twelve hours ago, with a completely different intent.

_Maybe he really _was_ only after a kiss, though,_ a voice whispered. He told it to shut up.

He finally realised that he was staring at the taller blonde when blue eyes met his own. Alfred jumped, then looked away sheepishly, carrying on with his work. The Briton walked over slowly, keeping a good distance from both ends of the animal that separated him from his fiancé; it was a different horse from the one he rode the day before, made up of a dark brown coat, glimmering in the sunshine after being brushed, and black mane that billowed in the wind instead of the dusty gold of the so-called 'Shandy'. "Hey," he said.

"Hey yourself," Alfred replied calmly, not meeting his eyes. He smoothly placed a saddle over the animal's back and buckled up the girth in one quick movement. "I thought you would have left for the airport by now."

Arthur narrowed his eyes. _He's testing you._ "I figured that I still had a few days of holiday left; why waste it in rainy London when I can enjoy this sort of weather?"

"Hm. You're on Molly." The American patted the mare on the back fondly, at last bringing his azure eyes to meet Arthur's. Part of him _ached_ at seeing them so empty. Half of him longed to apologise while the rest of him stood firm with his defending mindset.

A few minutes later, Daniel arrived on the scene, already mounted on his own chestnut gelding whose name the Brit could never remember. It turned out that Alfred was riding the mischievous beast that was Shandy, constantly holding the stubborn animal back or kicking it forward. The ride was simple enough, just a dust path through one of the meadows, then onwards to some sparse woodland that bordered a stream.

The only thing keeping Arthur conscious in the scorching heat was the wind that whipped across the land. It kept the air moving, as his mother said, and allowed him to breathe; thankfully, he had been allowed to leave the egg-box, as he called it, in the tack room, which left him with just a helmet that was a little too tight.

At least Molly seemed docile enough; the little bay mare plodded along, unfazed by the whistling in her ears, and seemed to enjoy the exercise. Although she took a bit of coaxing to get her to trot, she didn't toss her head, or buck, or stop dead in her tracks – unlike _some_ animals.

Such as Shandy, for instance, who was giving Alfred a run for his money. Every two minutes the horse would swerve from an imaginary predator, or kick at his own tail when it was blown against his hind legs. Arthur had to hand it to the yank: he was doing a fine job of controlling him. The young man was confident enough around the beasts, seemingly undaunted by their size and strength, but more than once on the hack he caught a glimpse of something alien in the boy's ocean blue eyes.

Fear.

In that moment, Arthur remembered something from years ago. He couldn't place when, or where, or what, or why; all he knew was who; in his mind he could hear Alfred, in his one serious tone, tell him something very important about horses:

"_They can smell fear."_

He couldn't place where the American had told him that key fact, nor how many years ago it was, but it sparked off other ideas. The horse will think there's something to be afraid of; you lose your self-assurance; some nastier horses will take advantage of any weakness in the rider. Ultimately, to be fearful is to lose control.

All it took was one particularly strong gust of wind to spook the jumpy gelding, taking Alfred with it. Already the boy was disappearing ahead of them, awkwardly hovering out of the saddle, a vice-like grip on the reins with one hand and keeping his Stetson on his head with the other.

Daniel pulled up his horse and watched his son being dragged along, remaining quiet calm compared to Arthur who was shouting after the young man. "He knows how to stop a bolting horse, Arthur; he'll bring him in a circle in a minute."

Arthur ignored the man, despite his greater knowledge of both Alfred and horses, and eased the bay into a canter to follow the runaway duo. In the near-distance, he spotted the fence and the hedgerow, and watched helplessly as the gelding haphazardly flung himself over it, flinging in turn the rider from the saddle. "Alfred!" he screeched, kicking for a faster pace. He felt physically sick; he recalled falling from a jump before, possibly the last time he rode with the American. To be completely unsupported by the Earth and be forced to trust an unpredictable creature was a horrid experience, and he never wanted to do it again.

Knowing that he wouldn't be able to clamber over the fence, though, he gritted his teeth and sent the mare over the jump anyway, pulling her up almost immediately to dismount.

His heart pounded, but his mind was too preoccupied in checking that the American was all right than to think about how he had just _jumped_, a skill that he had been anxious of since he could remember. He found the messy golden locks of the man amongst the scrubby vegetation almost instinctly, ducking down to the floor to brush the hair from his forehead.

Alfred's eyes were shut, his body limp, unresponsive. "Shit," he whimpered, feeling franticly for a pulse. He could feel a lump rising in his throat, his already speedy heart quickening further, and the oncoming of a panic attack, when he finally found a steady beat on the boy's neck. _Well, I never was any good at CPR,_ he reasoned, exhaling shakily. "At least you're not bleeding or anything, love," he whispered, hoping that somehow his words would bring him back to the living, "though you'll have some nasty bruising."

He looked up to the sound of hooves beating on hard-packed ground, to see Daniel leading both geldings over to the scene. "Is he all right?" the older man asked, swallowing thickly.

"He's got a pulse, and he's not bleeding or anything... I just didn't want to move him in case he's done something to his neck." Then again, his body wasn't horribly twisted or anything. "But I think he'll be all right if we sit him up."

* * *

The first thing that Alfred saw when he woke up was a pair of emerald eyes. Not that they were right in front of his face, mind you, but it seemed that his brain just focussed on those beautiful orbs and ignored everything but the Brit's softly smiling face; it was that same expression that he felt pangs in his heart for each day that he woke up alone, the smile that he missed dearly every morning and every evening. Since the accident, Arthur had never looked quite so... happy. And he missed that about him.

"Ar-Arthur? Urgh – why does my head hurt?" he grumbled, rubbing his eyes beneath his skewed glasses.

Someone stroked his forehead gently, rubbing soothing circles. "Because you refuse to wear a hard-hat, you daft plonker." He let his head fall back again, the dizziness creeping up his spine and causing his head to swim.

"What?" he groaned, still not grasping the situation.

The fuzzy image of his father appeared somewhere in the background, frowning. "That's it – I'm selling that damn horse. You okay to walk, son? Or do ya' need a ride?" Alfred didn't answer, but one of the men pulled him up and placed him behind them on the horse. He slumped against his father or boyfriend's back, letting his eyes slip shut again for the slow plod home.

"Alfred Jones!" He almost slipped out of the saddle when his mom shrieked his name; Alfred's sky-blue eyes flew open and he whipped his head around – pleased to see that his vision was back to normal – to find his mother standing on the porch with her arms crossed. "What have you done now? Trying to be a hero? Doing something stupid? Get in here!"

He silently obeyed, shrinking away from Arthur who was dismounting from Molly opposite him. Grace was never angry for long; she just hated to see her boys hurt and bloody, which always resulted in a session of tough love. The Canadian woman was used to cleaning wounds with spirits and soaps thanks to the brothers' childhood being filled with a mixture of ice-hockey, soccer, football, riding and skateboarding; there was no time for hugs and kisses when she was patching you up, as her attention was focussed on cleansing wounds and wrapping bandages around various limbs tighter than humanly possible. God knows what she would have done with the poor boy if he had gotten concussion.

The woman pointed firmly to the couch before going on a quest in search of some medical supplies. Alfred flopped onto the sofa with a heavy sigh; his back ached and his head throbbed, but aside from a few bumps and scrapes he was fine. What worried him was what his father had said earlier. Grace soon returned with an ice pack wrapped in a cotton cloth and some painkillers; he held her arm gently as she unnecessarily patched him up. "Please don't let dad sell Shandy."

She sighed, moving her arms back to hold his face. He had a feeling that his parents had been conspiring to get rid of the animal for some time, only needing an excuse – which they now had. "Alfred; we all knew this day would come. You live in another _country_ for goodness sake! How can you possibly expect us to keep an animal that we don't use?"

"You've kept Molly," he grunted, finding something interesting in the material of the couch. He knew that his argument was invalid; Grace hadn't ridden since a particularly nasty fall three years ago, but that didn't mean that she loved her horse any less.

The Canadian raised a thin eyebrow. "Alfred Frederick Jones, you _know_ that the mare is better behaved than that feral beast you call your own." She practically forced the pills into his mouth and handed him a glass of water. "I'm not going to bother persuading you – he's being sold, and that's it. And wear a hard hat in future."

* * *

20th July

Alfred sulked for three days straight, letting his mind wander over the key points; it wasn't fair, it was his horse, it was his own fault for not wearing protection, and _thank God_ he didn't mean that in another context. But his parents were set on their decision and Arthur stayed 'on the fence with this one, pet', leaving him to wallow about in self pity until he simply got over it.

Easier said than done.

At least the little scare had washed over the awkwardness of their horrifically failed make-out session. The Briton was paying him plenty of attention, sometimes including a peck on the forehead if he was lucky; sadly, it was a motherly, protective sort of affection, which he already had plenty of from Grace. Alfred had enough sense to not push for other means of comforting, treasuring the fact that Arthur had given him another chance.

He was sitting precariously on the fence of the pasture, as he had been for the last few days to give a long farewell to his horse, when Arthur approached him. Alfred smiled, giving a little wave, and noticed the light blush on the Brit's cheeks; he climbed down from his position and sauntered up to the older man. "What's up?" he asked airily, curious as to what could paint Arthur's face such a soft, rosy hue. Arthur seemed to hover, hesitant to respond, but in the end he gave a frustrated sigh and closed the gap between them.

He pressed a leaflet into Alfred's hands, looking towards the field. "There's a dance tonight in town. I was wondering if you wanted to go with me."

Alfred had not been expecting _that_.

"What?" he replied, half smiling and half frowning. Arthur let out a low growl and pointed to the text on the creased piece of paper.

"Your mother pointed this out when I helped her do the shopping yesterday, and I thought we could go together. _Like a date._" Blue met green, the message processing slowly in Alfred's mind. _He's asking me out,_ he thought excitedly after a few seconds, his chest clenching a little. Arthur sighed, reaching for the paper. "Never mind-"

"No! I mean – yes! Sure, let's go. Together." He simply couldn't contain his grin.

* * *

Considering that they weren't legally engaged in the state thanks to polls, they hadn't received too many dirty looks from the other dancers. The hall, located on the fringes of the main town, was packed with people in varying degrees of 'cowboy' attire; mostly it was just boots and a hat, but a few of the men wore chaps and vests to complete the effect. Arthur felt a little left out, squeezed into a pair of dark skinny jeans and a checked shirt, and the lack of effort drew attention to him more than a ridiculous costume would have. But linking arms with another _man_ was the main cause of their attention.

"Alfred, people are staring," he hissed, attempting to pull the giddy American off the dance floor. A part of him was worried that a group of farmers would appear with pitchforks and shotguns and order them out of the town, seeing as children were present and could be tainted by their so-called 'disease'. Arthur hated stereotypes with a vengeance, particularly ones that were directed at him, but the irrational fear wouldn't go away due to the glares and gossiping that they were being exposed to. To hell with being a hypocrite – he just wasn't comfortable!

"So what? Let 'em stare –you're beautiful!" Alfred cried over the music, yanking the reluctant Briton back into the open and pulling him close before spinning themselves around in circles. He had been laughing for most of the night, loud and brash and uncaring to the world, and while it made Arthur cringe from awareness, the light-hearted sound lifted his spirits.

That manic howling was a challenge; it said, 'Here we are, what are you going to do about it?' And so far no one had said or done anything to try and show them up.

Still, even though he was gradually relaxing under the scrutiny, Arthur was on edge for someone else. "What about your father?" he asked, raising his voice a little to be heard over the din. He caught sight of Daniel from over Alfred's shoulder for a second, before he was spun around to face a different, random direction. "He's got friends from the army here; don't they have a problem with us?"

Alfred shrugged against him. "A few of them, but dad ain't got time for anyone who's got a problem with his family. He broke off from those guys as soon as I stepped out of the closet; his real pals are asking about invites to the wedding."

_Oh, I'd forgotten about that,_ the Brit thought, biting his lip and resting his chin on Alfred's shoulder. He let his thoughts drift away a little, hypnotised by the beat of the music and the sway of their bodies. _Am I really going to go through with it? What's the point? Whoever I was before this mess is gone; I don't understand why he's still clinging onto me._ Abruptly, he was shaken from his musing as he was led off the floor in search of the food. The sudden chasm between them stirred something in his heart – a fluttering? An ache? Whatever it was, it told him that being apart from the American wasn't what he wanted.

_This is ridiculous – I barely know him! All I know of him is how he made my days at school hell. _But Arthur knew when he was lying to himself; in the few short months that he had been living with Alfred – or at least the ones he remembered – he had picked up detail after detail about the boy. He blamed the close proximity, but he was haunted by his scent during his working hours, only satisfied when they returned home and he could smell the combination of ocean and summer and fruit for real. It was almost childish how Alfred stirred his cereal around in the bowl before eating it, rather than just tucking in like everyone else he knew. He'd watched countless times as the American had combed that rebellious lock of hair either to the left or right of his parting, only for it to look 'odd' as he had put it, and ruffle it back up.

He jumped when Alfred spoke to him. "You all right, Arthur? You're awful quiet." He nodded, forcing a smile, and told him that he was going to take a breath of fresh air. It wasn't dark yet, even with the muggy blanket of cloud that blotted out the stars, but it was cool at least.

They were going to be heading home the next day, back to normal; back to boring, routine, nerve-grinding work and eat and sleep. No more walks down dusty paths, no more reluctant bonding with giant beasts that he didn't trust. Arthur accepted that he would miss the sheer _size_ of America and the carefree attitude that he had acquired in his short stay. "I guess I'll have to come back," he murmured to himself, leaning against the wood panels of the building. After ten minutes of staring at nothing, he made his way back inside to find his date, determined to get many more dances by the end of the night.

* * *

21st July

Alfred felt the tap on his shoulder as he finished loading the last case into the car, and turned to see his father. "Follow me," he said simply, walking back towards the house. Curious as ever, Alfred slammed the door shut and accompanied him inside, wondering what he could have possibly left behind. Daniel was peering into a cupboard until he put his arm in and scraped around for something out of his view. When his hand reappeared, it was holding a metal chain that was home to two silver tags.

The item was offered to Alfred, who took it gingerly, turning the pieces of metal over to catch the letters printed into them. "They were my tags from my working days," his dad explained, closing the cupboard and crossing his arms. "They've been cooped up in there since I retired, and now that I've finally remembered to give them ya', they're yours."

The younger man looked up suddenly, confusion written across his face. "Mine? Dad, I can't have these; they've been into a war and back."

"They're just gathering dust, Alfred. Besides, I know you've always been proud of my job, so I wanted you to have them-"

Alfred looked at the gift again, recalling all the times he had seen the tags around his dad's neck as a kid and beamed with joy at the thought of his father being a real-life hero, travelling to far-off lands to help strangers in need. He'd loved how they glinted and shone in the sunlight.

But he couldn't accept it. "Look, dad; thank you, but I can't take them. I'm not a hero like you; I'm an accountant, doing a job that a machine should be able to do these days. It's not like I help anyone – at least not in the life-saving sense. I know how important these are to ya', how you kept 'em clean all those years and wore them with pride. I can't do that."

The aging man sighed, putting a firm hand of each of his son's shoulders. "Alfred. I'm proud of what these stand for and I'm proud of _you_. That's why I want you to have them. And don't you dare tell yourself that you're not a hero after what you're doing for Arthur. Any sane person would have given up and accepted that he was gone, but you love him and are trying to bring him back, or at the very least make sure he's happy. I've saved lives, but I've also taken them. You're more of a hero than me."

The next seconds were silent, however Alfred dropped the chain over his head, glancing a final time at the tag that read 'D. Jones', and tucked the heirloom under his shirt. Although he had lost their little debate over morality, he was glowing on the inside, touched by the impossible faith that his father held in him. On the way outside, he gave his mom one final hug and joined Arthur in the backseat of the car, letting Daniel take the wheel.

Half way to the airport, Arthur reached for his chest. The American tensed in surprise, only to find his fiancé lifting the chain out of his clothes. "What's this?" Arthur asked, examining the cool segments of metal that balanced carefully on his fingertips.

"Just a gift," Alfred replied simply. There were some things that he didn't have to explain to Arthur, like how he needed reassuring sometimes that what he was doing was the right thing.

* * *

27th July

After two years of working with Kiku, Alfred had learnt the signs of distress that not even the Japanese boy's typical pokerface could mask. He assumed that it had something to do with his co-worker having high standards and expectations for technology, seeing as he completed his tasks with robotic efficiency, but Kiku Honda was frequently asking from the American to fix his machine.

Alfred was so finely tuned to the man's mood that he had defined several levels for it: level 1 involved Kiku holding perfectly still and being more silent than usual, in a hope that his computer would stop being slow and unfreeze the screen so that he could begin work.

Level 2 was signalled by light exhaling through the nose as the internet failed to load within five minutes.

Level 3 occurred when the office's data programs crashed, losing him a good ten minutes of work and taking up time on his tight schedule. Such problems provoked tutting and low, cursive mutterings in Japanese.

But worst of all was level 4 – oh, no, you did _not_ want to see Kiku at a level four problem. Full system shut downs, reboots, installing new useless software, or even just the lower levels when he was having a _really bad_ day, were what kicked him off.

The scary thing was, there was no shouting, no stomping of feet, no kicking of the computer tower, and nothing was flung out of the window. He did, however, sit quietly, growling a little under his breath and emitting an aura that simmered so hotly that even stone-cold Ivan on the other side of their workspace glanced over in apprehension. The only obvious noises was a constant clicking with the mouse or bashing on the space bar in utter frustration, until he asked Alfred to sort it out for him.

This particular day – a level 4 kind of day - Alfred was stumped as to what was causing the machine to crash over and over. There just wasn't enough time between the desktop finally loading and the error message popping up. He sighed and tugged at his hair. "Sorry dude, I can't help you. Why do you always ask me, anyway? Why don't you ask IT-Guy for help?"

Kiku's face dropped a fraction, but enough for the American to notice. "No way, Alfred-san," he said urgently, shaking his head.

Alfred tore open a bar of chocolate, leaning back in his chair for a break. Not that he'd got any work done that morning thanks to his friend's battered old computer. "How come? You'll never get anything done unless you ask for his help; it's not like you to abandon work. Ah – there he is now! Heracles!" He waved the brunette over.

"What are you doing?" Kiku hissed, flushing red.

Alfred didn't let up. "Hey dude, Keeks' computer keeps dying every time we boot it up. Think you could sort it out for him? Cheers." He grinned at his colleague, who stared back with dinner-plate eyes, before leaning over his desk and started some work. That didn't mean that he didn't keep tabs on the conversation – to help in the future of course; he wasn't nosy like Arthur!

He caught low murmurs of conversation; something to do with memory, and clearing out files. He heard hushed, panicked tones from Kiku, who insisted to clear out his folders himself. Alfred risked a quick glance up at that point to find the Japanese boy almost red in the face, the Greek beside him smirking with amusement. It seemed that Heracles ignored him and went straight into the computer's documents.

The Ameican didn't think anything else of it for a few minutes, returning to his own business and working through the numbers of his clients' bank accounts, until he heard the word 'porn' mumbled from the desk across from his and looked up once more to see Kiku's head slam into the wooden surface. He made eye contact with the support worker, who grinned cattishly back at him.

"It will work now," Heracles said, closing down the folders before Alfred could see the screen. (_Damn it!) _The Greek waited for a moment, then walked away with a quiet goodbye.

Alfred wheeled over to his friend, whose face was still connected to the desk, his eyes following the third man as he walked down the hall. "What was all that about?" he whispered. Kiku didn't rise from his position or make a sound. A thought occurred to the blonde, and although it was a long-shot, he asked anyway: "Do you like him?"

Kiku didn't answer the question directly, only rested his chin on crossed arms. "That was so embarrassing... He must think I'm a perverted freak."

It was all he needed to confirm his suspicion –damn, he was good at this! Another twenty minutes went by before Alfred spotted his target returning down the hallway, and leapt into action before his co-worker could stop him. "Hey, IT-Guy: come here a sec," he said, so cheerfully that no one would be able to hate him for the nickname.

Heracles wandered over – _slowly _– until he stood between the two desks. Kiku sat ramrod straight, tense and flushed once again. "...Yeah?" the Greek purred, noticing that Alfred's monitor showed nothing out of the ordinary.

Alfred beamed up at him. "You know, Kiku has a _huge_ crush on you."

"Alfred!"

This time, Ludwig, Berwald and Andersen turned alongside Ivan to stare at the men at the back of the room. It was the loudest they had ever heard the quiet boy be, and he clearly wasn't very happy with the American judging from the lack of an honorific. They probably wondered if punches were going to be thrown.

Heracles turned to face Kiku, who wouldn't meet his eyes, a pink tint creeping into his cheeks. "Really?" he asked, as if no one else was in the room. Alfred didn't need to speak again, because Kiku nodded shallowly. "...Want to get tea some time?"

By that point everyone had returned to their own business, but Alfred caught his friend whisper in response: "That would be wonderful."

* * *

**I promised GiriPan and I delivered.**

**Why aren't there any blue fireworks? Very few metals produce a blue flame when burnt, and those are on the rare side, therefore blue fireworks are **_**very**_** expensive/rare. It's not something you typically find in a shop. That's your science lesson for today! :)**

**And why Texas? The English dub of Hetalia is recorded in Dallas, Texas, and Eric Vale (voice of America (and Canada)) is from there as well – **_**I think!**_** I'm open for correction on that. Anyway, I felt it was a good enough excuse to pick that area – the USA is freakin' huge. :|The whole ranch thing extended from there. Just making this up as I go along...**

**The choice of middle names for Alfred was enormous, but yeah, 'Frederick' won out. Alfred Fred Jones. :3 And I finally got the tags in there!**

**I promise that Franada will be back in the next chapter – it's already planned out. But it may be a while before I post again (or not, I never stick to my own forecasting), seeing as I start college (we talked about this in chapter 1: I'm talking about the high school-ish college, not uni) on the 7th and it's going to be manic. In a good way. Maybe I'll get some inspiration.**

**As usual, please drop a review, question, favourite, follow, et cetera – it's kept me involved with this story even though I've got a couple of one-shots and a series planned. It's lovely to think that people actually want to read more, so thank you!**


	4. August

**Edit: I've had this posted for about 24 hours and already I've received three reviews; thank you so much! It means a lot to me and gives me another reason to carry on writing. Enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

9th August

As the rusting car rolled along the back roads of the countryside, Arthur sat either staring out the window at nothing or with his hands clamped over his ears. That didn't mean that he wasn't aware of his surroundings; next to him, in the driver's seat, was Francis, who seemed to be enjoying the noisy car journey. The two troublesome brothers sat on the backseat, poking and annoying and mocking each other to no end – honestly! Arthur felt like he was playing the mother hen on the trip! It was a Saturday, that one glorious day of the week when anything is possible, and the group was heading for a resort situated in the middle of nowhere.

When they had first piled into the car at some ungodly hour in the morning, hoping to avoid London's commuters, he had thought that the CD player in the vehicle would be a blessing. He thought wrong. Among the collections of Lady Gaga, LMFAO (Arthur couldn't even remember what that meant), and some other unusual-to-say-the-least bands and singers that all four men had contributed, was a blank-faced disk with the word's 'Drive Mix' scribbled on it in red ink; this CD was courtesy of Alfred.

It was a collection of songs that caused _insanity_ when played for the third time in a bleeding row! The Brit was determined that he was developing a headache from all the patriotic American and Canadian songs and jingles that the idiot had burnt off his laptop and onto the disk; honestly, he was going to _walk_ to their destination if it was the only way to get peace and quiet.

In the background of the car, Alfred and Matthew bobbed from side to side in perfect harmony, while singing along: "_We've got rocks and trees and trees and rocks~ and rocks and trees and trees and rocks~ and rocks and trees and trees and rocks~ and rocks and trees and trees and rocks and WATER~!"_

Arthur whimpered and dug his fingers in his ears, willing to gouge out his drums if need be. Meanwhile, Francis sat with one hand on the wheel, the other dangling out of the window with a cigarette in hand, with an amused smirk on his face. "We shall have to arrange another play-date, non?"

"Go to hell, Francis," the Brit snapped over the racket, jamming the eject button for the player.

Alfred's head appeared next to his own. "Aw, I was enjoying that!"

"Alfred, you've been listening to that song for ten minutes straight. I'm putting some AC/DC on."

"Noooooooo~!" he whinged, trying to snatch the said CD out of his fiancé's reach; Arthur managed to get it in without scratching it, though, and turned down the volume to a humane level.

The Canadian yanked his step-brother back to the seat. "Don't worry aboot it, Al. Look." He pointed somewhere vaguely east, but whatever it was had been obscured by the hedgerows flashing by. Arthur followed to where Matthew was motioning, winding down the window for an easier view and to get some air in the roasting tin of a car.

Finally – _finally_ – they were there. About a mile away stood a water park, filled with log flumes and rapid rides and the sort, the perfect resort on a warm summer's day; well, it wasn't reaching the heats that Texas had, but it was pretty good for the drizzly little isles.

"Ah, magnifique Mathieu!" Francis praised, following the next turn to the left. Arthur repressed the urge to roll his eyes; the boy was perfectly nice, but he just seemed to sweet and innocent. Clingy. Cuddly. He couldn't decide whether it was because he had been separated from Alfred or forced to sit next to the frog for two hours, but he hadn't been pleased when the Canadian laid claim to the backseat alongside his brother.

Queuing for entry took a while, although they had expected so much. Armed with towels, changes of clothes, some disposable ponchos that Francis insisted were a disgrace to fashion, they grabbed a map and started hiking along the blistered tarmac paths in search of the rapid rides with the hope that Alfred would shut up about it.

Several arguments and detours later, they found it, and also a ridiculously long waiting line. Alfred handed his stuff to a flustered Arthur, before digging around in his shorts pockets and pulling out four tickets. "Fast-passes for the day; it cost an extra hundred to get one for us all, but it's totally worth it," he grinned, handing them out. Apparently 'fast' meant a thirty-minute wait as opposed to an hour and a half for a five-minute ride. Still, by the time they had stuffed their belongings in some lockers and hopped into the soaked circular raft, no one was complaining.

Arthur leant on Alfred's shoulder – only because Francis sat on his other side – as he fanned himself. It was _too hot_! At least the crashing waves and misty waterfalls of the ride cooled him off a bit, although the end result was that he went from roasting to freezing in the space of ten minutes. Shivering and soaked through, they headed off for the log flume, followed by a go on the pirate ship, then the log flume again, repeating the routine of queuing and stashing and splashing. The usual rule – heaviest at the back – meant that the Brit was as far away as possible from Alfred, and instead had to sit between the Frenchman's thighs, much to his detest, while the American was stuck at the back of the boat with his brother. By the time the group was crushed into a drying cubicle, Arthur was fed up of being separated from the American.

"All right!" Alfred cried, jumping ahead of his companions to gaze up at the flashing sign above. "I say we do this next!"

Arthur looked up hesitantly, reading the words that competed with the sun's glare. "'Water Battle'? You can't be serious, Alfred; we've only just dried off."

"I want to go on the swan boats," Matthew sighed.

But the typical puppy-eyes were used. "Aw, come on guys," he replied, saturating his voice in self-pity, "I really wanna do this. I thought we could all have fun together."

The Frenchman snorted, arms crossed, before he responded. "Oui, Alfred, we can stand one last soaking – on one condition: all three of us versus _you_."

Arthur was about to argue with the compromise when the obnoxious laughter cut him off; Alfred was already racing down the path to the back of the line. "You're on, French Fry! A ha ha ha haa!" The Brit growled, exasperated with his boundless energy, and dragged himself along with the other two.

The briefing was short. There were four 'rules' they had to obey, _or else_, and they were 'no running' - which was ignored - 'no crouching' - which was also ignored - 'no physical contact', and finally 'have fun' – which was just plain tacky. Armed with water guns which Alfred christened to be awesome, they were released into the arena with thirty seconds to set up a position.

The American ran straight away, disappearing down a concrete-walled corridor in the maze before them. Soon the timer was up and surprised squeals of children could be heard from deep within the tangle of row, no doubt left soaking in Alfred's wake if the shouts of 'No time for crying – THIS IS WAR!' was anything to go by.

In their short moment of peace, the trio had managed to sneak to a secluded area of the maze. "We need a plan," Francis whispered.

"Why are we whispering?" Arthur hissed.

"He could be close!"

"AHAHA HA HAA HA!" The three men cringed at the sound of insane laughter coming from one corner of the arena. Just above the walls, they could see that the excitable youngster had secured the tower fort all on his own and was taking out anyone who came near. The game was on.

"Like I said," Francis said, shaking his head, "we need a plan."

A few minutes later, Arthur found himself scouting the surrounding area for the way to the fort. It was pretty deserted, despite there being forty-odd players in one go; they had probably scampered off to the other side of the maze to play in the fountains and throw water-balloons. He had to keep his head low since Alfred could probably see them from his perch.

_Is the only way to get his attention today to blast him with water?_ Arthur simmered, narrowly missing jets of water that suddenly shot out of the walls. In truth, he'd missed the fussing that the American usually dealt him; especially since someone else was taking over his attentions that day.

"I thought you were supposed to be madly in love with me, dimwit," he seethed, finding yet another dead end; "not your damn brother!"

"Arthur!" He turned around to see Francis waving him over. "Matthew found the way in!"

"Oh, yipi-dee do dah," he muttered, following the Frenchman. _Bloody perfect 'Mattie'... Oh bloody hell, stop it Arthur! You're acting like a three-year-old. Worse: you're acting like Alfred._

The next couple of minutes were a blur. Francis provided a distraction to lure away the boy's attention, while the others scaled the slippery steps and cornered him. "Put 'em up, cowboy," Arthur smirked as he pointed the watergun at his fiancé. Matthew copied the stance; if the American fired on either of them he would surely be soaked as well.

Alfred looked panicked for a second, before laughing defiantly, like a child that would climb that tree despite what his mother said. "Ha! Nice try, Artie, but you won't get me this time!" With that, he leapt onto the slide, gave a mock salute, only to be blasted at the other end.

"Je suis venu, j'ai vu, j'ai vaincu," Francis recited as Alfred spluttered through the waves of water. "That is what you get when you're too big for your boots, young man!"

"Cut it out! You win, all right," he groaned, the buzzer sounding for the end of the round. Arthur had watched the entire exchange from the top of the tower, his legs dangling precariously as he sat on the edge of the slide.

"Hey." The Brit looked over his shoulder to Matthew. "Nice team work, eh?"

Arthur smiled. "Yeah."

After drying off once more, they all settled down for some lunch. Alfred remained in a quiet, brooding sulk even with a burger and milkshake; Arthur gave up on lecturing him to grow up and take it like a man. He tried not to tease him too much, instead silently offering to sit next to him and nurse the American's bruised ego back to health.

"I still say it was an unfair win; after all, it was three against – huh?"

Arthur looked at the young man by his side. "What is it?"

Alfred was looking up into the sky; it had clouded over a little but no one had said anything in the hopes of it going away. "I thought I felt rain." Sure enough, more and more fat raindrops began to fall. Right and left families packed up their snacks and fled for the exit as the heavens opened. Matthew and Francis hid under one of the hideous ponchos.

"So the swan boats are out?" the Canadian asked, only half-joking.

"I didn't pay twenty-five pounds of my hard-earned money for three hours," Arthur barked, launching a ball of trash into a bin a little harder than needed.

Alfred shrugged. "The arcade's indoors; how much change have you got? 'Cause I might have lost at Blast Battle, but I bet ya' a tenner I can slaughter you all on Z-Day."

* * *

16th August

"Hey Artie." Arthur looked over his shoulder to the American, pausing from tying the laces of his shoes. Alfred pointed to the faint _12_ imprinted on the soles of his own shoes, grinning like a mad man. "You know what they say about guys with big feet, right?" A blonde eyebrow was raised with the question.

Arthur smirked at him, going back to his work. "No, I haven't. Do enlighten me in public."

The American flushed red, pouted, and sat down in silence. _That shut him up,_ Arthur thought to himself, finishing the bow of the laces. All jokes aside, it had been years (that he remembered) since he had been bowling; his flatmate had offered to take him during the weekend as a bite-sized date; something only an hour or two long but entertaining nonetheless. He had been looking forward to the Saturday afternoon through all the long, torturous hours of number-crunching for companies – after all, he would be able to beat the cocky git in a little sport, right?

But several rounds later and they were impossibly tied; Alfred had moments of almost professional success, however he screwed up and ended up with no points just as often, while Arthur was hitting eight or nine on each go. They were up to the game point when the Briton slipped.

It's a strange sensation, falling backwards; all you know is that you were standing up, and now you are lying on your back, but you can't fill in the bit in-between. It was this thought was passing through the stunned man's head when he realised a certain American was leaning over him, looking as if he was ready to burst into tears.

"-thur! Arthur! Are you all right? Oh God, this can't happen again. Ar-"

"I'm perfectly fine you fool! How help me up." A moment later and he was back on his feet, dusting himself off despite he was perfectly clean. "What the devil happened?"

"You took a swing, then fell. But hey, you scored a strike!" Arthur looked over to where the other pointed; the machinery at the end of the alley had just finished sweeping the remaining pins and was placing down a new set. The scoreboard showed that he was twelve points ahead. Game over.

Arthur practically leapt into the air. "_Yes_! I've never beaten you in this before!" he laughed, wrapping his arms around the bewildered American and spinning in circles. It was several seconds before he realised that Alfred had lifted him into the air, continuing to spin them both around.

"What? You remember _that_?" he replied, setting him down on the ground again. "All right; celebratory dinner, your choice; but I ain't going to a pub."

* * *

22nd August

_This isn't awkward at all, _Alfred attempted to convince himself.

No one was talking at the table except for Feliciano, who was babbling on and on about which pasta they served was best, the secrets of flavour and which wine goes best with each sauce. It was Arthur's fault that they were in the Italian restaurant; since forgetting almost everything about their co-workers, he felt that they should start 'socialising' a little more, and put the idea of a double date to the guys in his office. Feliciano accepted immediately, before even asking his partner. (Tino was unfortunately busy and Yao ignored the offer completely.)

Although they worked in the same team, Alfred barely spoke with the German that sat opposite him; they had nothing in common – that he knew of – unlike Kiku and Ivan, his two main friends at work. He somehow couldn't imagine the stoic, almost military-disciplined man wanting to talk about video games and the latest horror movies. And Ludwig was far too protective of his boyfriend.

All right, so that made Alfred a bit of a hypocrite, but in fairness Arthur was technically 'sick' thanks to his amnesia.

"What pasta are you having?" Feliciano asked, beaming innocently as usual.

Alfred shook his head. "Nah, I think I'll try a pizza."

"Oh."

The table settled into silence once more. _Yep; totally not awkward._ The American made the 'awkward turtle' motion after a few moments, rousing a disapproving tut from his date.

"Remind me: how old are you?" Arthur snapped.

"I ask Feliciano the same thing daily," Ludwig piped up. Alfred had _not_ expected the joke, but it helped to break the ice a little. As the waiter took their orders, he tried to think of something to ask; Arthur had never been one to make small talk, so if he could do it then so could he!

"So, you guys going anywhere soon?" he asked, forcing himself to relax into the backrest some more.

The Italian nodded eagerly, more than happy to do Ludwig's share of talking on top of his own. He told them of their plan to fly to Rome next summer and visit his grandfather; the aging man was lonely and it was nice to catch up with relatives and to escape reality for a while. "Think about it: long, romantic evenings; good food, fine wine; warm weather and cultured people. It's a paradise, ve~!" The man at his side just grunted. _I guess he's not too keen on the idea._

"Oh, I never asked how Texas was," Ludwig said.

"Just nice to see the folks, eh Arthur?" Alfred replied, nudging his fiancé in the ribs.

The Brit smirked. "Well I was going to simply say 'interesting', but yes, it was enjoyable. The best part was seeing you fall off your own horse, you incompetent git."

Alfred could take the teasing; he had one-up on the Englishman. "Huh. You see, I clearly remember you getting very upset; you know, cradling my head in your lap, tears on the edge of your-"

"WHO WANTS DRINKS? WAITER!" Arthur cried, cutting him off. The others ordered a selection of alcohol, while Alfred asked for a coke.

Arthur gave him a questioning, pitiful look. "What? I'm driving, remember?"

The evening rolled on, filled with chit-chat until the drinks arrived. The drinks calmed everyone's nerves further, and they chit-chatted more openly even after the food arrived; all except Alfred. His humongous appetite was too loud to ignore by the time his pizza arrived that he stopped absorbing the conversation altogether, his focus lost entirely to shovelling down slice after slice of delicious meatball pizza.

"What about you, Alfred?"

"Whuh?" he asked, a gooey string of cheese still connecting his mouth to the half-eaten slice in his hand.

Ludwig – who now had an arm casually over his date's shoulders - explained the question for him. "What would you give up for Arthur?"

_Tough question._ The American knew he should be able to answer straight away, probably along the lines of 'anything', but even though it was true that he'd sacrifice everything for the man he loved he might be branded as not caring enough to give a thoughtful answer. (Especially with Arthur's attitude.) What _would_ he do? Give up his own life? Probably; they hadn't discussed it. He knew he couldn't bear to live without Arthur – why else would he have stuck with him after their argument? He was the one who had insisted on trying to get back to their ordinary relationship. But if he sacrificed himself, would Arthur be happy without him?

"I... don't know," he answered honestly, wiping his mouth. "I hope I'm never in a situation like that."

"Again." He looked up to Arthur, who had spoken, meeting his emerald gaze. "You're already giving up a year of your life in my name, to try and help me find myself again."

Alfred squeezed his hand under the table. "And I wouldn't be doing it if I didn't think it was worth it."

They all sat in silence, only broken a few seconds later by Feliciano sighing: "Awww!"

* * *

26th August

"Absolutely not."

There was no telling his mother; it didn't matter how well he put his point across, or how many reasons he had to back up his decision, Arthur's mother wouldn't stop until she got her own way. She wasn't spoilt or selfish; most of what she did was for the good of her loved ones. But that didn't help Arthur.

"Please, honey? He needs this; the only thing he's done since high school is laze around at home, never lifting a finger. He tried getting a job but no one would take him, what with the economy being as it is."

"That's his own fault!" he exclaimed, sitting down in the canteen with a heavy thud. "It's not my problem if he screwed up his education; why should I have to pick up the pieces?"

A sigh came from the other end of the line. "He's your brother."

"My step-brother," he corrected, taking an agitated gulp of tea and burning his mouth in the process. "What if I don't want him around, hm? What if he makes me uncomfortable? I don't remember anything specific, but I can't get rid of the nagging feeling that he joined in with the others' bullying." A pause. "I knew it."

"Stop it. Minimum wage and short hours; that's all I ask." And she hung up on him, just like that. The Briton jabbed the red button on his mobile, ending the call, and shoved it back into his pocket. The last thing he needed was that blasted Dermot meandering around his workplace, teasing him and causing trouble and getting him fired. _I worked too hard for this job,_ he thought, _and he's never worked a day in his life; I owe him nothing._

Besides, it wasn't so simple. He couldn't just go swanning into his boss' office and ask him to give his good-for-nothing brother a job; the man was already tight with his pennies, so why would he hire unnecessary staff?

Because – and Scot was going to remind him of it for the rest of his miserable life – his mother asked him to. No matter how much he resented her decisions, be it husbands or to hold family gatherings, he loved her. Like any good mother, she had given him everything she could since the day he was born. Helping Dermot would help her; it was the least he could do.

It took him several hours to work up the courage to talk to his boss, but eventually he found himself standing in front of the door labelled 'Mr. Edelstein'. After a short pep-talk to himself, he knocked on the door. He waited a moment before the clipped reply of, "Come in." Arthur took a deep breath before entering the office.

Roderich Edelstein was a grand and well-groomed fellow; he really didn't belong in a stuffy office space, seeming to be more suited for life in a court or as a politician. Classical music twinkled respectfully in the background from a battered old radio, keeping quiet lest it should interrupt his thinking. The brunette man sat pointedly straight behind a perfectly aligned desk.

"Sit down, Mr Kirkland. What can I do for you?"

He was always so polite, but the tone of voice and the way he looked at you at an angle suggested that his true opinion wasn't so graceful.

_Moment of truth, lad._ "Well sir, I'll be perfectly honest: my brother desperately needs a job. Anything; just so that he can bring in some money. I was wondering if there was anything going."

The Austrian tutted, then picked up a handful of documents from a drawer and leafed through them. "What qualifications?" Oh, so they weren't even on whole-sentence terms now? Arthur could feel his audience slipping away.

"I'm not sure, sir, but he's not looking for a very high wage."

"Bring me a CV by noon tomorrow and I'll see what I can do," the man replied, still not looking up from the papers. "If it doesn't show up I can only assume that neither of you are truly interested."

Arthur got up to leave, his shoulders almost floating now that a weight had been lifted off them. "Thank you, sir." _That wasn't as bad as I thought actually,_ he reasoned, pulling out his phone as soon as the door was closed behind him. Still having trouble with the on-screen keyboard, he managed to text his younger step-brother: 'get your arse off the settee and put a CV together – I've got you a job'. Send.

He pocketed the device, double-checked that it was locked, then put it back once more. Although the deal hadn't been set in stone, the important fact to note was that Roderich Edelstein didn't like to waste his time – he would only bother asking for a job application if he meant to accept it.

* * *

29th August

The living room was a jumble of popcorn bags, bottles of fizzy pop and 'hiding pillows'. Somewhere amongst the masses was a pirate copy of a tacky horror film that Alfred had acquired from Ivan; it was a typical gory, pathetic-victim type movie that lacked plot, but was good for wasting away a Friday night. Their movie night was ready to begin, but it seemed that the yank kept stalling, no matter how much he tried to hide it.

"There's no point having to pause it just to get more snacks; it ruins the flow," he justified, dancing around the pile of goodies.

"Alfred," Arthur sighed, "there are three bags of popcorn – all different flavours – along with half a kilo of chocolate and eight litres of Coca Cola; you're not going to have to put the film on strobe anytime soon."

"Strobe? Did that amnesia take you back to the early nineties or something?"

"Bloody wanker!"

Alfred dodged a pillow that was hurtled his way. "Ah," he said, looking round at the stash, "Ah, okay." He crawled over to the television to put the DVD in, then stopped. "Oh, I need the bathroom again."

The Brit growled and snatched the case away from him. "That's the fifth time since we had tea. You go – if you need to at all – and _I'll_ put the film on, ready and waiting for your return."

The younger man's expression turned sickly, then he sat on the sofa clutching a Superman covered pillow to his chest.

An hour in, Alfred was still stuck behind the cushion, only he had managed to curl up like a hedgehog behind Arthur's legs as they lay on the sofa together. From the start of the movie, they had slipped slowly into a horizontal position, with the American almost cuddling on top of his Briton. _Damn wimp,_ Arthur thought, although he didn't have the heart to push him away.

It was around the forth grisly murder that he became aware of the boy's trembling. "Alfred, if you're so scared, why in God's name did you insist on a horror?"

"I'm not scared!" came the reply, a little too high-pitched to be convincing.

Arthur wriggled about until he could fit his face behind the pillow as well, giving Alfred an expression that clearly said 'I don't believe you'. "I mean, I'm cold. And tired – yeah! We can turn it off and go to bed if you want." He had shut his eyes firmly closed once more, but a small smile had crept onto his face. The Brit straightened up again and sighed.

"Come here," he murmured, opening his arms invitingly. Alfred was surprised enough to open his eyes, only to close them again as the murderer jumped out on the screen; he all but leapt into the embrace, turned away from the TV of course. The screams and clashing of weapons wasn't the most romantic background noise, but it was good enough for Arthur.

* * *

**Finally finished this bloody chapter!**

**It's a little short; I'm sorry. This is more of a 'summer fun' section with very little seriousness involved. (And loads of Arthur's perspective – there really wasn't any other way to do it, I'm afraid.) But nothing in this chapter was pointless; it was either to build relationships between the characters or to set up future plots.**

**The song: www. youtube watch?v= P2Ca-vTapfU&feature =fvst**

**The water park is completely made up; if there is a place in the UK (preferably northern England) that is similar, please do tell me. Not that we get the weather for it... Anyway, I guess I was kinda inspired by Alton Towers, but I felt as though I was name-dropping so I just made the resort up. :)**

**And that 'drying cubicle' thing is real if you're wondering; it's like a giant hair-drier that you stand in.**

**I've found that if I write up the basic notes/script to-and-from college, I can get material written much faster; this **_**hopefully**_** means I will post more frequently than I had guessed! I've gotten most of the chapter written within a week with this method.**

**So, back to serious!fanfic mode in September...**


	5. September

**Thank you for all the reviews so far – they're much appreciated! And I'm sorry if I haven't messaged you with a personal thank you, I just give up checking after a while, ha ha. I'm also sorry that this chapter has taken so long, but college (British college, we talked about this in chapter one ;) ) is ridiculously hard work, and I don't even have a job on top of it all.**

**Thank you for sticking with this so far, and for being so wonderfully patient. I finally kicked my three-month writer's block in the ass and broke through the harder parts of this chapter.**

* * *

4th September

Arthur groaned irritably as he was woken, his eyes remaining stubbornly shut even as he noticed the urgency in Alfred's voice. "Arthur, get up," the American said quietly, shaking him a little. Arthur turned his head, rubbing his eyes and glancing at the alarm clock.

"What the bloody hell, Alfred? It's four in the morning," he yawned. Instantly, seeing that he was already dressed with a wide-eyed expression on his boyfriend's face, he knew something was wrong. "What is it?" he asked, sitting up.

"My dad just called; mom's been in a road accident. We've gotta fly out there right now. I'll pack some clothes, you just get dressed." Alfred didn't say another word after that, leaving Arthur to hastily throw on his clothes from the day before. They skipped breakfast, but downed a cup of coffee just before they left. Arthur offered to drive, but Alfred insisted that he needed something to take his mind off things – which was fair enough.

It was still early on in the morning, yet the airport had the usual hustle and bustle, though there were a lot less families queuing than there had been in July. Had it really only been two months since Arthur had met Grace for what felt like the first time? He wished it was under the same happy circumstances that they were travelling, desperately wanted his nervousness to be down to meeting his future in-laws instead of fretting for a loved one. After purchasing two tickets on the next flight to Dallas, then rushing through customs, they were left to sit in duty-free with another cup of coffee and some cheap doughnuts, most of which Arthur ate because it appeared that the American had lost his appetite. Not a good sign. Finally, they could board, and were in the air before most of London had woken up.

The Brit could feel the tension radiating from the other man throughout the nine-hour flight, and he tried to occupy him. Suggesting movies to watch together and playing a couple of the games on the screens in front of them lasted only so long, however, before they lapsed into silence, Alfred clearly worrying about his mum, Arthur worrying just as much about Alfred. Somewhere near the east coast, the American slumped against his shoulder and fell into a deep sleep, leaving Arthur to stroke his fingers through his hair in a soothing action until he managed to switch off as well.

Arthur stirred at the uncomfortable sensation in his ears. The seatbelt icon above their seats was glowing; a glance through the window confirmed that they were landing, and the pressure in his ears kept growing and paining him. He heard a yawn to the side of him and gently ruffled Alfred's hair, trying to be supportive without talking about the situation. The slightly younger man blinked in surprise, then remembered that he was on a plane, and why; his face dropped straight away. It was nine in the morning in Texas, yet it felt like three in the afternoon to them. It was going to be a long, painful day.

The taxi ride was no better; Arthur sat rigid beside the American, scared to feel or think, while the taller boy repeatedly ghosted his fingers over his phone, clearly debating whether to call, or text, or check his messages. The Brit knew why he couldn't quite open the inbox. _What if the worst has happened?_ he asked himself, staring out of the window with a shuddering sigh. There was no telling how Alfred would cope with whatever news awaited them – it would be emotionally messy, of course, but exactly which tangent it would take was a mystery. _I bet I could almost read his mind before; I wish I knew how to comfort him now._

Alfred never asked for much from him, only to not leave his side until their tight web of emotions could be untangled, yet for one reason or another Arthur felt it was his duty to keep that dazzling smile on the American's face come what may.

And so far, he was failing.

When the cab pulled up the dusty driveway, Daniel was already waiting for them, his squared shoulders blocking a great deal of the doorway. Arthur busied himself unloading the cases and paying the cab driver, keeping an eye on the father and son the whole time. It took Alfred a few moments to summon the courage to join his dad on the porch; once he did, a few hushed words were exchanged, and Arthur saw what he previously thought was impossible:

Alfred crumbled. He didn't sink to the floor, and there were no tears, but his defences visibly came crashing down around him and that aura of optimism dissolved, leaving him with sagged shoulders and a hollow gaze when he looked over his shoulder. Arthur flinched at the sight of those cerulean eyes so hopelessly _empty_. The cheery idiot had never looked so vulnerable.

Reluctantly, the Brit pulled the two cases to the house, determined not to be the one to break the silence, for he knew what the body language was _screaming_ at him. _She can't be, _he thought. _They're going to laugh in a minute and tell me that she's fine. _He knew at the pit of his stomach that this was as serious as family matters got, but he just had to cling to that strand of hope even if Alfred had let go of it. If the American was down and out, he would just have to step up and be the hero instead.

The three of them sat in the living room for a few hours, not saying anything, not moving. Arthur had wrapped his arms around one of Alfred's in hopes of acting like an anchor, pulling him to Earth and preventing him from going mad – _he_ would be wailing like a widow if it was his own mum, heartless as the wench could be. Daniel cried silently for a lot of the time, yet still his son's face remained expressionless. Arthur hadn't realised that he'd nodded off on Alfred's shoulder until he jumped to the sound of the door bell.

"I'll get it," Alfred croaked, his voice hoarse from the hours of silence. Arthur's green eyes watched sadly as his arm slipped from his grasp, wondering if this was what it was like for a loved one's personality to be wiped clean, comparing their last few months to what might follow. He watched over the back of the sofa as Alfred opened the door, and Matthew stood on the porch, his face red and his lips trembling, immune to Francis' care as well who stood behind him.

As the brothers stood face to face, their resolve broke and both of them began openly sobbing in the doorway, locked together in their embrace. Francis shot his ex-boyfriend a soft look, the traces of a smile appearing and disappearing in under a second; it didn't seem fitting to share a greeting any more elaborate than that. Daniel waved both of them over and they shared a hug, leaving the two old enemies standing awkwardly in the background. "Come on, let's go into the kitchen," Arthur whispered as they brought the bags in. "I feel like we're encroaching." Francis just nodded and followed him.

The Englishman felt more comfortable talking with a closed door between them and the private family moment, and set about making a cup of tea for the both of them. "Dare I ask how your flight was?" he murmured, still trying to be careful about his volume.

"Terrible," Francis replied, shaking his head. "As soon as we got the news he started crying, and still hasn't stopped. Nothing I did could console him; when you think about it, offering hugs and kisses when something like this happens doesn't exactly balance out the pain."

"Hm, quite. Do you actually know what happened? All I was told was that Grace was in a car accident. Here." He handed him a steaming mug.

"Merci," he replied, taking a sip. "I couldn't get any sense out of Matt so he handed me the text; the poor woman was driving home late at night after comforting a friend over a break-up. Some drunken bastard ran through a red light and straight into her side of the car. I hate to think of her being so alone." Arthur nursed his mug absent-mindedly, shivering at the thought of being encased in a coffin of crumpled steel. 'Car crash' was on his list of worst ways to die, even if the paramedics had gotten her to the hospital before she passed away.

"I feel so helpless," he whispered, taking a long drink despite it still being red-hot.

He let Francis place a steady hand on his shoulder. "We can only wait, mon ami, and be there for them."

* * *

Finally, Mattie was asleep; curled up on the couch with his childhood polar bear toy, still taking the occasional shuddering breath, but out of the conscious world for a couple of hours. Alfred knew all too well what his step-brother was going through, seeing as he lost his own mother at just five years old. At least at that age it was so much simpler; he was told that she had gone somewhere happy and free, where she could sing with angels all day and watch over him just like always.

His mother – his real mother – had been gifted with a wonderful singing voice, soft and sweet, and used to sing him to sleep with lullabies whenever he got frightened of the monsters and ghosts that he was certain lived in his closet and under the bed. And when she was gone, he was left to cry himself to sleep at night, because although his dad checked all the dark, looming spaces of his star-spangled bedroom and promised hand-on-heart that there were no monsters, he was still afraid without her. But whenever he remembered that she was still watching him and singing all the time, he calmed down just enough to get to sleep, and eventually he grew up without spending the first hour in bed in hysteria.

However, now that he was an adult, life wasn't made of milk and honey. Life _sucked_! You were born, had a couple of awesome years as a toddler, then were thrown onto the conveyer belt of education and dumped off the end of it stamped as a grown-up, and expected to get a job and pay your taxes just like everyone else, until one day your exhausted body packed in and dropped dead.

Grace was gone, and not in the 'flying through heaven and singing happily' gone – just gone. Her body was in a hospital almost forty miles away, but her personality, all her individual little quirks like how she stuck her tongue out while beating a cake mix, her love for candy floss and her hate for pop music, every tiny detail that made her _Grace_ had disappeared into the ether.

_Dead. Go on, say it you coward: Grace is dead._ It didn't feel right. It was so sudden; she was 51 and still had the joys of being a grandparent and the rewards of retiring ahead of her. She was supposed to make it to the wedding. And the cold, hard fact that she wouldn't get to do any of those beautiful things lodged in Alfred's throat and threatened to choke him.

What was worse was that, in a way, she really was his mom. Apart from the singing, there wasn't really anything that he recalled about his actual mother; Grace was the one who helped him settle into their new neighbourhood when they moved to the UK; she drove him and Matthew to soccer practice every Saturday morning, making cookies for their return; she was the person that he came out to first, because despite he knew his father loved him, he wasn't certain how the trained solider would react to his remaining straight son also coming out of the closet. But she was kind; she reassured him and broke the news instead, and everything was perfectly fine.

Most importantly to Alfred, she was the person that he called in those early days of college, when he shared a dorm with Arthur and a bunch of other guys and wanted to win him over discreetly, so that the touchy Brit didn't face more bullying. The Canadian woman even had a hand in organising his proposal. And now that stood for nothing, because all that was left was a battered, hollow shell of a person he once loved.

He had suffered that horrendous loss twice now, but this was the first time that he understood it completely; Alfred decided that he had it easier than his brother, who had no prior experience in death. At least for one of his mom's he could imagine her as an angel, even if he knew better now. But Matthew didn't have that natural peace of mind, and it had left him completely floored.

"Do you want a drink, love?"

Alfred looked round to find Arthur standing beside the sofa, utterly sullen. "Yeah, just a coffee," he whispered.

Before the sun had set the entire household wanted to call it a night. Francis carried his boyfriend to his room, lifting him as if the slightest knock would crack his fragile form. After one final hug Daniel said goodnight as well, cleared up the dishes, and headed off for his second night in bed alone. Alfred sighed and wearily started rearranging the cushions on the couch, wiping his cheeks from the latest flood of tears. "See you tomorrow, Artie," he muttered, planting a kiss on his head without much thought.

He jumped when the Brit held onto his arm, emerald eyes meeting with his own. "No," he whispered. "You can share with me. Come on." The American was pulled down the hall by the smaller man, wondering if the entire day had been a horrible dream and this was just another twisted part in it.

Apparently, though, Arthur was serious, as he changed into his pyjama bottoms quickly and slipped under the covers, nodding to the other side. Alfred stayed in his t-shirt and boxers and joined him in the bed, relishing for a few seconds in the sensation of feeling an actual mattress pressing into his back instead of a thin layer of couch stuffing on wood. He closed his aching eyes, only to open them again as his fiancé wrapped his arms around him, pulling his head over to rest on his chest. "G'night," Arthur uttered into his golden hair.

Ordering his heart to stop racing, he simply hummed in reply.

* * *

9th September

The car was silent. Alfred could feel his heart racing in his chest, and was certain that he could hear the beat of his family's in the tense air. _Don't cry, don't cry,_ he repeated in his head. He felt sick; this was surreal, not right. He would have lost his mind long ago, right at the start of the day, if it hadn't been for Arthur; the Brit had latched onto his hand like a lifeline.

It seemed as though they were the last to arrive. All the faces he knew from his true home had shown up, and even a few that had flown in on short notice to pay their respects. But he couldn't stand to meet their pitying gazes, their more emotional eyes; he just fixated on the ground as they entered the chapel.

The building was almost full; the American had never felt more self-conscious in all his life as they sat in the very front pew, and for once it wasn't about his clothes or his weight or his ever-messy hair. Matthew was already blubbering as quietly as he could, with his dad appearing to be on the edge as well. Yet Alfred could only feel numb.

The hour passed as if it were merely seconds. Music played as some of Daniel's friends from the army carried the coffin to the front. All of the family had been offered a place, but none had the mental strength; Alfred didn't dare think of what was inside that cold, wooden box, and he didn't like the idea of being so close, either. Was that squeamish of him? Or just plain disrespectful to his mom? Perhaps, but he simply couldn't do it.

A mish-mash of prayers and hymns followed – he couldn't keep track of the order or content –until he suddenly found himself standing with his father and brother. His face raw with tears that he didn't remember shedding, he approached the coffin with the group. _What now? Do I say something? Put my hand on there?_ But his hand stayed stubbornly at his side.

Arthur looked at him expectantly. The American opened his mouth, but no words would come; instead, he shied away from the scene without doing anything, brushing past the others to get outside, to fresh air. Arthur was close on his heels.

As everyone else left in a filed line, they shook hands with the men, apologising for their loss as if they could have done something. 'It must be a difficult time for you' and, 'We're sorry for your loss' cropped up a lot. At least Matthew had quietened down a bit from a mix of the closure and Francis' constant soothing, but Alfred felt himself growing progressively angrier.

Eventually, he snapped. "I can't do this!" he hissed, tense, and he was running, bolting away from the buildings and towards a line of trees, somewhere where he could be alone. _All I've wanted to day is to be left alone!_ he thought with a frustrated growl. After making it a few metres into the shade he plonked himself down behind a trunk –_screw the suit! _– and hid his face in his crossed arms.

The plan was going well until he heard the crunch of footfall in the brittle twigs. "Alfred?" came a distinctly British accent as warm arms closed around him. "Come on, let it all out."

_Don't cry,_ he reminded himself, already weeping. Not the silent, unknown crying that he had ignored all day, but huge, wracking sobs that were muffled into Arthur's shirt that he was crumpling with clenched fists.

When his raw throat begged him to cry no more, he gathered his shaky breaths and rested his forehead on his fiancé's shoulder, relaxing as delicate hands caressed his hair. "Better?" Arthur asked quietly, but he couldn't bring himself to respond.

* * *

12th September

At the rate he was drinking it, they would soon run out of tea. Arthur checked his mug to see how much was left, then downed the dregs of the rich, earthy liquid. The others were discussing the next step after their loss, a subject that he didn't believe he had a right to intervene in. Still, perhaps he should make some suggestions seeing as Alfred was curled up silently at the other end of the sofa. While the boy's father and brother had come to an uneasy peace with the last week's events, the over-grown child had remained in his unreadable pattern of mood swings and loss of appetite. When he questioned it, the American usually told him that he was sick or just tired, but it was clear that he was still troubled. He'd sat brooding, shying from contact, throughout the entire conversation; clearly he was uncomfortable with the situation.

"We talked about this a few years ago," Daniel was saying across from them, "although we never imagined that it would be so soon. She said that she would want to be spread near the river, since she loved riding Molly around there when we were younger."

"That sounds great, dad," Matthew replied, brighter than he had been in days.

"What do you think, Al?"

Alfred's head snapped up at the question. "What do I think?," he snarled. "I don't want anything to do with it! I don't want to have her flow through my fingers, or get stuck under my nails, or get caught in my hair; it's not right! I don't want to see her like that, or even think about it, so don't ask me what I fucking want!" By this point he was storming out of the living room and taking the stairs two-at-a-time until they heard a door slam.

The remaining three sat in a daze, cups of tea and coffee still in hand. The Englishman wondered how the others were going to react; Alfred had been particularly bratty recently, yet this was much worse than he had ever seen him. He had thought that his outburst at the funeral was the worst of it, but apparently not.

Finally, Daniel made a decision. "Well, if he doesn't want to come along, that's his choice; he's an adult after all, even if he doesn't always act like it." He stood up and began collecting up the mugs and plates. "Are you coming along, Arthur? No pressure."

He shook his head. "No, I'll see if I can knock some sense into the lad. But thank you."

Once the car was safely out of sight, Arthur made his way upstairs, his mind still pouring over what he could possibly say to the emotional wreck that he was supposed to be marrying. However by the time he got to his bedroom door he still hadn't managed to muster the right words, nor by the time he knocked and asked to come in.

"Go away," he heard faintly from the other side. Arthur sighed before letting himself in anyway.

"Alfred," he started, but couldn't find a way to make his point. What point? He didn't know anymore. He perched on the end of the bed, evaluating the scene: Alfred curled up and facing away from him, covering his head with a plump pillow and ineffectively hiding his sniffling.

After a few minutes later and the American mumbled, "I'm sorry, Artie. I just can't bear to think of her like that. I've already accepted that she'd dead, what more does the world want from me? How am I supposed to remember her like she was when all that's left is ashes?"

Arthur placed a hand on his ankle. "You might regret this one day; you might decide that you should have gone to say goodbye."

"Maybe, but I'm not in the right place to deal with it right now." A pause stretched between them until Alfred sat up with a huff. "When we first came over here, I wanted everything to stop, for everyone to realise that such a beautiful person was gone thanks to some idiot. Now I just want to move on, to look forward, but Matt and dad are still mourning so it's like I can't because-"

"You're babbling," Arthur smiled, resting a finger on his fiancé's lips.

Those peacock-blue eyes stared back at him. Arthur felt the warmth of his touch against his cheeks and neck, and felt no urge to shy away from the calming sensation. Even when Alfred brought his face tantalisingly close he remained in his gentle hold, welcoming his lips against his own. Then it was over, those eyes once again locked with his, leaving him with his heart soaring in his chest and a mind muddled far beyond repair.

* * *

14th September

The door was closed with a satisfactory slam, the two meagre cases balanced precariously on one of the back seats. Arthur was already making his goodbyes, currently embracing Matthew and talking to Francis over the Canadian's shoulder, leaving Alfred with his father. "So... when do you want to meet up again?" he asked, kicking up the dust on the ground. "There's Christmas, and then the wedding is in April; I don't think there's going to be any other time."

Daniel shook his head. "Sorry, Al; Matthew asked to come and stay with Francis for the holidays. He's still not right, you know? He's getting good at hidin' it, but he's still hurt bad."

Alfred looked ahead of him, watching the other three talking as if nothing had changed. "He'll get over it." He stopped. "Sorry, that came out awful! I mean-"

His dad laughed and landed a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry son, I know what you mean. It'll get easier for us all with time. Now get in; I think Arthur's finally stopped chatting."

* * *

19th September

Arthur cursed as the door to the flat jammed on something. Once he had managed to squeeze through the gap, he found a letter had been posted; from the States by the stamp on the thick envelope. Alfred stuck his head over his shoulder and kicked the door shut. "What is it?"

"For you, that's what," the Brit said, handing it over. "What take-out do you want tonight?" There was no answer, so he asked again before looking up to see a clouded expression on his partner's face as he read through the paragraphs. "What is it?"

Alfred continued reading for a moment. "It's the inheritance from mom's will," he said, as if it was obvious.

"Oh," was all Arthur could manage. Since returning home, there had been a few times when the American's resolve broke and he started crying all over again; any reminder wasn't helpful. Cursing himself for sounding cold-hearted, he asked, "Well?"

The letter was folded back up and placed back inside the envelope; he wanted to read the exact words, but Alfred clearly didn't want him to see it. "It's generous. Probably enough to pay for this damn wedding." The taller man collapsed onto the sofa and wiped his hands down his face. "Sorry, I don't mean it like that."

"No, no of course not," Arthur replied, dialling a number absent-mindedly. He paused and chuckled to himself. "Maybe we should look at this like one last gift from her; to not be living on the breadline."

"Well, I was thinking about paying off some of our student loans, but if you want to spend it on the wedding that's okay," Alfred said brightly, breaking into a grin for the first time in weeks. "Which means you're definitely on board for it?"

Arthur didn't say anything. He just placed their order and left it at that.

* * *

20th September

The good news was short lived. Mr Edelstein was on the war path.

"You two can't just take two weeks off whenever you feel like it! There's work to do, deadlines to be met; do you have any _idea_ how much time money I wasted finding temps for you both?"

_Not much judging by your scrounging nature,_ Alfred thought, biting the inside of his cheek in fury. They were being lectured like school children – surely that was wasting more of his precious, precious time? Besides, it wasn't a holiday, it was a family emergency. Alfred wanted to tell the Austrian that to his face, but was ashamed to admit that he simply didn't have the balls for it.

Apparently though, Arthur did.

He stood up, forcing his chair backwards. "Well we're sorry if the economy nearly went into a triple-dip recession because of our absence, but we didn't exactly choose lose a relative! You can't just book these things like a week in a caravan – which is all we can afford on your shitty wages – and if time is that bloody precious to you then you should leave us be and let us get back to our miserable work!"

There was silence in the office, and the American was certain that everyone else in the building had heard Arthur's words.

Their boss stood, hairs on end, staring back at the Englishman. Clearly he wasn't used to being spoken to like that. Finally he said, "Get out," far too quietly to be kind. Alfred practically ran with his tail between his legs, but Arthur took his time, hands in pockets, and made sure to slam the door.

Alfred waited until the lift doors were shut to speak. "Jesus Christ, Arthur!"

"Someone had to stand up to him," he said lightly, straightening his suit.

"But he could _fire_ you!"

"Then let him!" Arthur retorted, turning to stare the other man in the eye. "He'll lose out as well. There are plenty of jobs in this city, Alfred, under people who are much more human." He sighed and leant against the back wall. "You don't deserve to be spoken like that, Al. I couldn't bear it."

The door pinged open and the Brit stepped out, possibly to his last day of work before Roderich found an official excuse to let him go. Alfred was left in the confines of the steel box, trying desperately hard not to panic about the whole situation. He couldn't do it, and spent the next half hour silently crying in the toilets about everything that was going wrong in his life.

* * *

21st September

A shitstorm was heading his way, Arthur could feel it. There had been no word of being fired for almost two days, only extra work piled upon extra work for him to complete; he did it, by some miracle, he got through every document that his boss claimed was what he missed while he was away. He hated to admit it, but a deep fear rooted within him, the fear of not being good enough, _made_ him do as he was told in the hopes it would amend his outburst and save his job.

On the other hand, he might be working like a slave only to be fired anyway. He'd seen it happen before.

It was an hour after his usual leaving time, and the paperwork had to be delivered to Edelstein personally. He jittered nervously in the lift, a growing voice in his mind telling him that this was it, it was the end of his career. He was so taken up by the fear that the world was completely blocked out right up to the point where he opened the door to the office and there was a squeal of shock.

Roderich stood, shirt undone and trousers round his ankles, while the secretary, Elizabeta, clutched his jacket over her otherwise naked figure, still shrieking.

Arthur didn't have to be told to get out, he simply closed the door and started back to the elevator at a brisk walk, returning to the door and shoving the documents under it as an afterthought. It wasn't until he was crammed on the tube with half of London that a smirk made its way to his face, and he thought, _gotcha'_.

* * *

**This chapter is possibly the most tragic thing I have ever written (so far). I wanted emotions dammit! As for inspiration, well, I've only ever lost my grandmother, but I can't begin to imagine how hard it is to lose a parent. I don't want to. I tried to cover the basic responses: shock, awkwardness (that was me), tears and closure. I found that last one difficult in real life; I deal with things better if people stop talking about it – like Alfred.**

**Anyway, a little brotherly support, and some bonding between Arthur and Francis. Lord knows they needed it.**

**I started writing this before I had even finished the first chapter, so that should explain any inconsistencies; I did try to keep it smooth. Also building an atmosphere by restricting speech; English Language did teach me something, after all. **

**Oh, and since publishing the last chapter I've (finally) gotten my first kiss, so yay for authentic descriptions! :'D**


	6. October

**These chapters were getting shorter, so I stepped it up a notch. This hasn't been proof-read, as I wanted it updated at last. Thanks for being patient!**

* * *

4th October

Over the last two weeks Alfred had kept his head down, working away diligently with the hope that Roderich would just ignore him. By some miracle Arthur had kept his job and the rent was paid on time, the Brit telling him not to worry, that it was all sorted between him and their boss. Everything was back to normal.

Well, except for the receptionist not being as chatty as usual. What was up with that?

He was trawling through reams of numbers on his monitor when he jumped to the sound of Kiku's voice. "Alfred, do you like cats?"

The young accountant swallowed the last of his doughnut and turned to his friend. "Huh? What 'ya talking about?" There was something up with the Japanese boy; although he had his usual graceful, calm appearance, his aura could be described as... simmering.

"Oh, I was just wondering." They returned to their work for a bit, until Kiku spoke up again. "Heracles and I both have cats, so when I moved in with him I brought my girl with me. But last night she had kittens, because _someone_ doesn't believe in neutering-"

"Whoa, too much info!" Alfred cringed, shielding his ears. "It's eight-thirty, Keeks; I don't really wanna hear about cat balls or lack- wait, did you say kittens?" The American's eyes grew wide along with a toothy smile.

His friend nodded, his simmering anger becoming clearer. "Yes. We didn't even know that the poor thing was pregnant, so it was a big shock. We can't keep another six on top of Heracles' impressive collection. If you and Arthur would be interested, we're giving them free to good homes."

Alfred scratched his cheek absent-mindedly with the end of his pen. "Gee, I don't know Kiku. I mean I'd love a pet or something, but I'd have to talk it through with Arthur first. And even then we might not be allowed to keep them in the apartment-"

"It's all right, Alfred, I was just wondering," his friend replied with a smile, returning to his work. The American felt as though he was walking on a knife edge, torn between his heart and his head.

During his lunch break he indulged in some kitten pictures on Google.

They were cute.

_What the hell,_ he figured.

* * *

6th October

"They're so SWEET! Can we take all of them?"

Arthur rolled his eyes at the adult-sized child that sat by the cardboard box, blue eyes sparkling at the sight of the tiny balls of fluff. He didn't want to be there. The apartment was too warm, too dark and the cat hair was itching his nose – and he wasn't even allergic! The Brit had told Alfred that he wasn't interested in getting a cat, but agreed to come along anyway seeing as the idiot was certain that he would change his mind.

He had never really spoken with Heracles. The man was quiet and seemed far too laid back for Arthur to have a serious conversation with him. But he must have been nice enough if Kiku – who also had exceptionally high standards – chose to live with him. Still, he didn't appear to have forgiven the Greek for letting this whole situation occur; so the father of the litter was to be neutered at dawn. "Like an execution," Heracles had drawled from his slouched position on the sofa.

"Come on, Arthur, pick one!" The American was sending him begging eyes, an expression that the Englishman dreaded because he couldn't refuse it. Most of the time, at least.

He joined his partner on the carpet, looking into the box. "All right then, let's get this over with." They were all the same to him. And yes, the tiny life forms were adorable as they snuggled against their dark-furred mother, but aside from that Arthur held no opinion on them. He tried reasoning for one last time. "Alfred, are you sure this is a good idea? We live in a busy area, and there's not much room, and we're watching the pennies as it is-"

Alfred reached for his hand and held it warmly. "But look at them! Think about how lovely it will be after a hard day's work when you've got a pet to welcome you home. And they're not as much maintenance as dogs; they can come and go as the like. Please?"

There it was: that look again. Huge, cerulean eyes that called to his heart.

He sighed, faking irritation. "Fine, which one?"

Without another second of thought, Alfred pointed to a white and orange kitten. "That one! He frowns like you!" Arthur glared at him, then leant in closer for a better look. The babies' eyes were still clamped shut from the outside world, and this one in particular had screwed its face up so much that it seemed as if it had huge, heavy eyebrows of fur.

"You bastard! Fine, I want that one!" he tutted, pointing out a grey and white one that was busy suckling for milk. "It's stuffing its face like you're always doing!"

"So you'll take two?"

"What?" they said in unison. Heracles was chuckling lowly.

"It seems as though you can't decide... why not take both?"

Arthur's eyes fell back to the kittens, then up at Alfred who was beaming rays of light into his face. "Alfred, no. There's no way we can afford two."

Heracles interjected again with a smile. " Any leftover ones will have to be sent to a shelter."

"No!" Alfred cried. "That's it Arthur, we _have_ to take them!"

Kiku was babbling something furiously in Japanese, while his boyfriend sat there with an accomplished smirk on his face as he batted off the accusations with relaxed responses. There was no way a cat-lover like him would send such pathetic little creatures to an animal shelter; no, it was a ploy to ship them off faster.

"-and they would be happier together anyway! We've gotta be their hero, Artie!"

Alfred was still rambling on about kittens until the Brit covered his mouth with one hand. "Fine, Alfred, we'll take them both." The American replied with something that sounded like 'yay!' from behind the obstruction.

They stood up and Kiku shook their hands. "Wonderful! You can pick them up in about seven weeks; we'll get them tagged and immunised and _neutered_," – he shot a glare at the Greek by his side – "before you take them home."

Alfred didn't stop smiling all the way back to their apartment, leaving Arthur to wonder what on Earth he had gotten himself into as the American continued to mumble something about 'a little family'. _Marriage should be easy after this,_ he half-joked to himself.

* * *

13th October

"This is ridiculous!"

Alfred turned to look at Arthur, confused. The skinny thing was bundled up in a hat, scarf, two pairs of gloves and a thick woollen coat, under which hid numerous layers of clothing. Only a week or two ago, the weather had been positively balmy, almost an Indian summer; but the temperature had plummeted, scratching as low as the minuses at night. It was as if autumn had been bypassed completely.

The American laughed, pulling him along. "What's ridiculous, Artie?"

"Apart from that nickname? The fact that it's the beginning of October and there are already Christmas decorations!" He puffed out a thick cloud. "And people wonder why they're sick of it all by the twenty-fifth."

Alfred had stopped outside a bookstore, reading over the various titles and authors on offer. "We're two weeks into the month, Arthur. Besides, you're the guy who's getting their Christmas shopping started," he chirped. A book on World War Two caught his attention.

"You made me, Alfred. And what on Earth are you looking at? You don't seem like the type to read."

Her glared back at his accuser. "Why? Because I'm into sports and video games? Because I'm a dumb 'Yank'? Take a look at the bookshelf back home, Arthur; are _you_ the one who reads all that American history?"

"Whoa, whoa!" he replied, holding his hands out as defence. "It's just that I've not seen you pick up a book since... well, ever since May."

"Yeah well, between giving you my undivided attention and being bummed-out by my mom dying, I haven't had much free time," he muttered, pressing his forehead against the icy glass.

Arthur squeezed his hand. "Oh come off it, stop pouting; or Santa won't come."

"I'm not some kid!"

"Stop acting like it then."

They spent the next hour window shopping before taking shelter from the cold in a coffee shop. Christmas seemed like a year away but both of them knew that it would suddenly pounce of them if they didn't start planning. Usually, Arthur made all the festive arrangements; the decorations, presents, cards, what food would be stocked in the cupboards, where they would have Christmas dinner - all of it was down to him. But all that was just another of things conveniently forgotten with his amnesia; either that or he was acting the clueless fool to get a year off from all the work, and in fairness Alfred wouldn't blame him if that was the case.

The American finished his hot chocolate and pinched the marshmallows from Arthur's drink - he didn't like them anyway. "So what do you want for Christmas, Artie?"

"For you to stop with that horrendous nickname."

"No, seriously."

Arthur slowly stirred the fluffy cream into his drink. "Oh, I don't know."

"Come on, think damn it! Everyone wants that one special thing for Christmas, and it doesn't matter if it's big or small, expensive or weird, if that's the only thing your heart desires then you deserve to be treated." Alfred let a pause hang in the air. "It's me, isn't it?"

"I beg your pardon?!" Arthur yelped, slamming his cup down onto the saucer. The younger man was in hysterics.

"Relax, Arts - that's your new nickname, since you hate Artie so much, even though it's so cute! – I'm just fooling around. But seriously, I'm stuck for ideas, like every year. You don't want new socks again; you nearly kicked me out into the cold last time I made that mistake."

Arthur chuckled into his mug, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth; it was a rare moment to see him so naturally happy. "Well, it was better than when you bought me underwear the previous year."

"How was I to know you hate boxers? You never complain about seeing me in them," Alfred muttered. That extracted a snort of laughter from the other. The American grinned. "What's got you in such a good mood today?"

"Oh, I don't know," Arthur said lightly, placing his empty cup to one side. "Maybe it's the change in the season, or that Christmas is around the corner; things just feel right for once. I'm having fun."

"Good," Alfred said, reaching over and taking hold of his hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb. _We're finally making some progress_, he thought. While they weren't always so in tune with one another, moments like this were slowly becoming more and more common, until one day – he hoped – it would be the norm.

* * *

19th October

Truth be told, Arthur was feeling a little sick. It was his own fault, as he'd already managed to down a few drinks in the two hours of the party that had passed, but the flashing lights and thudding music didn't help his twisting stomach. At least there were plenty of people to take his mind off things. It was one of the rare occurrences that he could catch up with Alfred's co-workers and not just his little team, who were strewn all over the office's third floor in various activities; he'd last seen Tino drinking Ivan under the table, while Yao was carefully sampling the nibbles on offer, and Feliciano had disappeared somewhere with his boyfriend, presumably for some 'private' time.

He currently found himself shouting over the music with Andersen, each of them with a plastic cup of cheap beer in one hand. "So who got the promotion," he yelled, dodging out of the way of a stranger.

"We've not heard anything official, but we're guessing it's Lud," the Dane replied, taking a swig of his drink. "It's not me, Ivan, Berwald or Kiku, and Alfred's been sulking all week."

Arthur laughed. "Yeah, I noticed. Why hasn't Gilbert said anything?"

"Why do you think?" Andersen replied, placing his empty cup on a table behind him. "It doesn't look good to promote your brother to your old job as you leave."

"No wonder Al's been pouting since Monday," Arthur sighed, more to himself. The older man had a point; it really was a case of who you know rather than what you know. Saying that, though, Ludwig had always been a diligent worker, never crossing work with play until tonight when he had been spotted dancing. It remained a mystery how his albino sibling had gotten permission from Mr Edelstein to throw the leaving party on the third floor of the office block – Arthur's best guess was that he hadn't.

While he finished draining his cup, gagging a little on the nasty taste, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to come face to face with someone he was surprised to be there. "Dermot? What are you doing here?" he asked above the noise. The younger man shrugged.

"I came to check out the party; shouldn't have bothered."

"Yes, but why?"

"Didn't you hear?" he asked, Irish blue eyes glaring back at him. "I got that job; I'm just a errand boy but it's enough to keep my arse in the flat and buy my own beer."

Arthur didn't know how to reply to that. "Uh, great I guess."

"Yeah... thanks – for sorting it for me," the boy replied, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder before motioning that he was leaving the scene. Somehow the Englishman felt they'd made more progress with each other than in all the years their parents had been together.

He hung around on the edge of the room for a while, watching the various employees of the supposedly sophisticated office block dance like animals, until a familiar, frazzled American joined his side. Alfred's hair was sticking to his forehead, no doubt from hopping up and down with his friends for the past hour. He leant in close to speak to him.

"Dance with me!"

Arthur drew back and shook his head wildly. "No!"

"Why not?"

"_I _can't dance, Alfred, I have two left feet."

"Please?"

"No."

The other man appeared to shrink and left him alone, finally getting the message.

* * *

_What did you expect? For him to say yes and leap into your arms, leaving you to dance the night away, fall in love and kiss romantically while the entire room applauds?_

No, but it would have been a nice, easy way to solve their problem.

Feeling rejected and lonely to the core despite being surrounded by friends, Alfred decided to seek out the only other person that could pick him up; but Matthew was more elusive than usual that night, and no one had caught sight of him in the last hour. He wasn't on the dance floor – or rather, an area cleared of furniture with a hired DJ booth at one end – and he wasn't passed out under a table, in the toilets or in the stairwell, so there wasn't anywhere else that the American could think of; his brother had disappeared.

He gave up for a while, resigning to hang around with Berwald and Ivan in the background until he saw the familiar waves of gold that could only be the Canadian, and rushed over to him. "Hey Matt! Hang with me, will ya'? I don't mean to be rude but I'm bored here; I'm not feeling this German dance music." He stopped short when he drew up to his brother. "You okay?"

Matthew looked a bit rough, his hair ruffled and his cheeks flushed, but he waved him off. "I'm fine, Al. Isn't Arthur with you?"

"Yeah, but he's being all boring and won't dance. I wanna go home."

His brother shrugged and picked up a stray cup of water. "It won't be long now; Gilbert's gonna give his speech soon, look." Alfred turned, uninterested, to the sound system at the front of the room where the albino stood, shouting down a microphone with increasing volume to gain control of the room.

"Hey hey, settle down! How do you turn this music off, Heracles? There – thanks for coming everyone, you'll be sorely missed. Now, it's time to introduce your new boss; get over here, loser!"

Someone in the crowd shouted something, but Alfred didn't get what it was until the German grabbed his brother by the arm and dragged him into the middle of the floor; he heard one of the guys from his group bark taunts, probably Ivan or Andersen, to which the blonde waved a fist in the general direction of the calls.

"Care to say a few words, Lud?" Gilbert purred, shoving the microphone in his brother's reddening face.

"Nein!"

Alfred had begun to snicker along with a few others in the room; for a moment he was thrown back to high school, the capital of public humiliation. He had nothing against Ludwig but it was nice to see him squirm one last time before he had control over his career, and his first few scenes as their newly promoted manager would give them an idea of how much they could get away with at work.

The albino sent his brother back into the crowed. "You're no fun, but we knew that anyway. All right guys, guess I'll see you next time on my super-yacht once I've beaten the stock markets. Dream big, hey?"

_Yeah, I can dream._

* * *

21st October

It was one of those days when you _know_ something is going to go horribly wrong.

Arthur woke up almost three hours earlier than usual – and on a _Saturday_, as well – and lay staring at the ceiling as anxiety closed in on him. Finally, when he could lie and panic no longer, he threw himself out of bed, tied his dressing gown around his slender frame and tip-toed into the living room.

Through the darkness he could just about make out a mountain of blankets on the settee. "Alfred?" he hissed, "Alfred, are you awake?"

The plush pile shifted with a low groan. "Mmmm... I am now. What's wrong, Arts?"

"I can't sleep," he whispered, hopping over a pile of clothes and squeezing onto the end of the sofa, nestling down into the warm tangle of covers. He hadn't realised just how cold it was in the open living room; the moth-eaten curtains didn't hold in much heat, and the boiler was too temperamental to keep on during the night.

The American mumbled something and shuffled closer to the edge of the cushions, making room for Arthur to wedge himself between the back of the settee and his warm body. It was nice having the live glow of a companion pressed against him; already it was making him drowsy, relaxed.

The next thing he knew, daylight was surging through the thin curtains and he was alone in the mess of duvet and pillows; the clock on the wall told him it was sometime around nine o'clock. From behind the back of the couch he could hear the radio buzzing in the kitchen, as well as the hiss and crackle of food on the stove, Alfred singing along to the now-familiar pop music between yelps of pain and curses.

Practically rolling out of the nest, the Brit pulled his bed robe tight and followed the alluring scent of bacon coming from the room in question. It seemed that his American was frying up a heart attack judging by the amount of spitting oil that was in the frying pan, and he was paying for it as the wild droplets frequently leapt out and bit him.

"OW! MOTHER OF – oh! Hey Arthur," he said sheepishly; he knew damn well that it was too early for all that swearing.

"Morning, Al," he replied, rubbing his eyes with a smile. "Coffee?"

The other man hummed eagerly in reply. Arthur was pleased with himself for _finally_ getting out of the habit of making a pot of tea in the mornings; his flatmate wasn't exactly keen on it (though he'd drink it if he was in the mood) and preferred a shot of caffeine to kick-start the day, and the Englishman didn't mind the taste too much. A plate with a fluffy-breaded, heavily bacon-laden sandwich was placed on the counter next to him as he was stirring the dark liquid inside the mugs.

"You really shouldn't fry food, you know," he said, taking a bite anyway. _On second thoughts, that is rather good._

"Yeah well, it's the American way!" Alfred joked, half of his breakfast already gone. "Mom does it best-" He silenced himself. "_Did_ it best. She taught me to cook, and thank God she did, otherwise we'd be living off your crappy cooking."

"Do you mind?" Arthur retorted with a wink. "At least I can make a decent cup of coffee – you make it so bitter!"

"It's meant to be like that; but then you pile in the sugar."

"How are you even still alive at this point, Alfred?"

The phone rang. It made both of them jump; some of Arthur's drink spilled over onto the countertop, and while he was mopping it up Alfred went to answer the phone. As he listened in on one side of the conversation, Arthur heard the younger man's tone gradually darken.

"Calm down, Matt, we'll be there as soon as we can... Y'huh, yeah don't worry about it... see you in a few." He hung up. Arthur had since wandered over to the doorway and leant against it in anticipation. _What's happened? _Every horrific situation sped through his thoughts; he couldn't stand the fear of the unknown and asked: "Alfred, what is it?"

The American had already shrugged into his coat by the front door. "Matt and Francis have been fighting all night. The bastard cheated on him! Now he won't leave so Matthew called me to _make_ him leave." He shot a dark look back at his fiancé. "You coming or not?"

Arthur mumbled, "Two minutes," and hurried back to his room, throwing on some random clothes as quickly as he could. It wasn't until the car was started that he got chance to tie his shoelaces, but at least it gave him something to do; Alfred's face was like thunder and the atmosphere in the cramped vehicle was no better.

The root of the problem was troubling him more, though. Yes, he was always flinging labels along the lines of 'sleazy' and 'perverted' at the Frenchman – they didn't exactly get on, to the best of his knowledge – but Francis wasn't anything more than a little flirty. He wasn't the sort to cheat; at least he didn't believe so. Even when they had their short relationship in their late teens he had been loyal, just a pratt as well.

All that aside, they were so happy together. Never publicly mushy nor cold towards each other. Each complemented the other; Francis brought out the best in the Canadian, helping him to gain confidence and self-worth, while Matthew acted as an anchor, preventing Francis from doing anything too stupid or too 'Francis'.

When they arrived Alfred slammed his door shut with such ferocity that he feared the windows might shatter, but his voice when he buzzed at the door to be let in was unnervingly calm. Arthur held back a bit, frightened a little by the way the American could mask such intense _anger_. It couldn't be anything else. Alfred was almost shaking from it.

It seemed that Matthew had made some progress since calling, as a pile of clothes, bags and mis-matching possessions had grown outside the front door. On their way up the stairs they had passed another disgruntled resident of the block, probably desperate to get away from all the racket going on. Arthur had never heard the Canadian shout before, nor Alfred, come to think of it. And he'd never, _ever_ seen Francis in such a pitiful state. His hair was tied back in a raggedy tangle, exposing the dark circles under his clouded blue eyes as he pleaded with Matthew to calm down and think straight.

Alfred appeared to grow twice in size as he approached the scene. "Alright, Francis, you'd better clear out now; or else."

"Alfred, please listen, your brother is taking this too far. It was just a kiss and I'm so sorry!"

"My brother deserves someone who _worships_ him!" he shouted, giving him a slight shove with one hand.

Arthur edged close to the American and tugged gently on his arm. "Al, calm down, this isn't going to sort anything." He was shrugged off as Alfred moved over to put an arm around his brother's shaking shoulders.

"Get your stuff and get out," he growled.

"It's my apartment!" Francis said, throwing his arms out.

The boy in tears laughed half-heartedly and sniffled, "Take the car, it stinks of smoke thanks to you anyway; I don't want it."

The three men were at a stalemate; the Frenchman unwilling to give up everything he had, the two brothers uncaring and unsympathetic. Arthur had to be the one to break the silence, sighing, "Come on, Francis, I'll help you load up the car."

His fiancé nodded a thank you and took his sibling inside, leaving the two friends to collect the various garments and items into boxes and bags, ready to be heaved down the flights of stairs and into the back of the small car. The second-hand thing wasn't worth much, maybe a few grand at a push since it was in good condition, but there wasn't much left for the man to rebuild his life with.

Just as he finished arranging the last box, a light hand came down on Arthur's shoulder, and he turned to look sympathetically at Francis. "You have to believe me, my friend, it was just a kiss; nothing more, no matter what conclusions he has jumped to."

Arthur shrugged. "It's still a kiss too much, Francis."

"Oui, and I regret it with every fibre of my being. I told Matthew about it last night, when the guilt had eaten away at me; I knew he'd be terribly upset, but I thought he would be rational, and work it out with me, not throw me out onto the curb like a discarded pet." The man rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms, a shuddering breath escaping him.

"When did it happen?"

"At the party the other night."

"Ah," he said, biting his lip. "Maybe he'll forgive you," Arthur suggested.

"Maybe," he replied with a sniff, and swung open the driver's door to get in. "Eventually. I'll see you in work on Monday hopefully, but I'll try to keep out of the way."

"Francis?" Arthur said without thinking as the engine started. The man looked at him quizzically, rolling down the window. "Don't disappear, okay? Alfred will likely punch you in the face if he sees you again, but you're a good friend. Don't do anything stupid."

He laughed; the brightest sound the Englishman had heard since before the phone call. "Fear not, Arthur, I'm an optimist. I'll find a quiet little flat somewhere in London and start over. I just hope dear Matthew doesn't get in trouble over his rather expensive rent." He glared up at one of the buildings many windows before winking, bringing up the window and driving off. Arthur stood on the pavement for a few moments with his hands in his pockets, staring sadly down the road until the red citron was out of sight, and made his way back upstairs.

He didn't bother knocking on the front door that had been left ajar in his absence, and went right in to sit on the sofa with the other two. All that remained of Francis in the living space was a few bottles of French wine in a rack and a photo of them at some birthday party from years ago; Arthur couldn't recall it.

Alfred was talking with his brother, trying to cheer him up and support him at the same time. "It'll be hard at first, Mattie, but things will get better. You did the right thing; he can't expect to sleep with someone and come crawling back to you."

The Brit kept his mouth firmly shut, not wishing to start another argument by correcting him that it was 'just' a kiss. _And I don't know that for sure, anyway; I've only got his word._ He felt pretty useless and lost, like the previous month when Grace had died; there wasn't anything he could do.

"Do you want anything Matthew?" he asked. "Anything at all?"

The Canadian tried to halt his sobbing, wiping his face with the sleeve of his sweater. "I don't mean to be rude, but I could do with some sleep, then some time alone. Thanks for the help, though."

"Don't mention it; we're brothers," Alfred reassured him, giving him a choking hug for good measure. "Come on Artie, we'd better go."

Arthur nodded and offered his friend a smile before he left with his flatmate; suddenly everything was very quiet and very different, as if reality had shifted four feet to the left and had thrown him off-balance. The drive home was no better, as he was left in some sort of shell-shock over the fact that in under an hour the happiest couple he knew was just _gone._

"Man I hope Francis decides to not show his face on Monday," Alfred sighed, still simmering from the morning's ordeal. "He'd have some nerve."

Arthur kept his gaze out of the window at nothing particularly interesting, but replied, "He'll be in, but he'll stay out of the way. No one wants a scene at work."

"He should hand in his notice."

"He has every right to work there as Matthew does, despite what's happened. And I think you should cut Francis some slack."

Alfred laughed mockingly. "Oh really? I thought you hated his guts; why are you taking his side?"

"I'm not taking anyone's side, Alfred! I'm just saying that according to _him_, it really was just a kiss and nothing more; he shouldn't have done it and this is the price, but I won't have you slandering him just because you're pissed off. And we've been friends since I grew the hell up, unlike you."

Alfred remained silent for a few minutes, and the older man thought that was the end of it, until they came to a red light. "Yeah okay, so I am being hard on him, but Francis hasn't just lost him mom; he doesn't need as much support as Matthew, especially with a salary one year ahead of us all. Matt admitted that he didn't think any of this through, so on top of everything else he's worrying about the cost of the apartment. It's likely he'll have to sell up most of the stuff and move out." He knocked his head against the window in frustration. "I want to help him Arthur, but he's determined to do it all by himself."

"Maybe that's what he needs, Al," he replied in a mumble, thinking back to Francis and wondering where on Earth he was in this vast, vicious city.

* * *

31st October

The downside to being an adult was that you couldn't go trick-or-treating unless you had kids of your own.

The upside was that in a metropolis as huge and dangerous as London, there were barely any children in the city centre to take his sweets!

Alfred was sat quite happily on the couch next to Arthur, bowl of chewy, sherbet and gummy candies nestled in his lap as if it was his newborn son; they were watching episode after episode of 'Treehouse of Horror' that he'd bought a few months back from Gilbert, who had his own little empire of pirate DVDs going on his laptop. Surprisingly, Arthur found the cartoons hysterical, something that he had insisted he'd grown out of during university. Now, however, they were giggling together like children, pushing aside irrational fears of monsters and undead as best they could.

The American snorted at the scene on TV. "Please, I can eat, like, _twice_ as many donuts as that."

"Hm, I'd believe that, tubby," Arthur said, giving him a playful poke in the ribs.

"Well excuse me, princess, if I don't have time to go to the gym every day!"

_Ding!_

They both squealed at the sound of the doorbell, jumping half out of their skin at the unexpected interruption. Arthur paused the show as Alfred hurried to the door. _No no no no no no no, no! Go away you dumb kiddies, it's way past your bedtime and this candy is __**mine**__,_ he thought, bracing himself and opening the door.

A brunette man a little older and shorter than himself stood glaring back at him. It took a moment for the blonde to realise that he was wearing a headband with cat ears and had whiskers and a nose painted on his face. "Trick or treat," the man grumbled, holding open a plastic shopping bag. Arthur joined him in the doorway.

"What on Earth-"

"Hola, Amigos!" chirped another man, throwing an arm around the other's shoulder with grin too big for his face. The pair were clearly foreign, with tanned skin, dark hair and flowing accents. "We just moved in the other day and thought we'd introduce ourselves. I'm Antonio, and this adorable little kitty is Lovino. The kind old lady downstairs said there was another gay couple living here; boy, she was right!"

The younger couple exchanged glances, sharing the same thought that they had never spoken with the said woman, and wondered if it was really that obvious. Alfred quickly took in the sight of the strangers on their doorstep: Antonio was in drag, sporting a short maid outfit but lacking a wig, seemingly unbothered by the concept of shame; Lovino's outfit was more suitable, made up of an ordinary shirt and pants with an added fake tail. Between the Spaniard's daring and the Italian's lack of enthusiasm, they were well deserving of a reward.

"Wait right there," he said, disappearing back inside the apartment and returning with the bowl of goodies and emptied it into Lovino's carrier bag. "So where are you two headed? Not many folk round here bother buying candy, you know."

Lovino groaned, pointing a thumb to his partner, "This _genius_ is dragging me kicking and screaming to a gay bar down the street, not thinking for a moment that we won't get a reputation for _this_." He gestured to his costume.

"It'll be fun, Lovi!"

"How come I've never heard of this place, Alfred?" Arthur asked, who had been quiet so far. The American did a double take – surely he wasn't actually interested in going?

He shrugged casually. "Beats me - I always thought that it was more of a singles thing."

"Not at all, friend," Antonio said, waving his hands freely. "Come with us, we'll show you! Don't worry about costumes; they'll still let you in."

Alfred looked back to his fiancé, not sure what to say, but Arthur spoke for the two of them. "Meh, why the hell not? Grab our coats, love."

And that is how Alfred found himself walking with a cat, a maid and an Englishman towards a nightclub on a freezing October night, wary of what awaited them upon arrival. He was certain that the other three grown men were quite sober, even with the raucous laughter and teasing going on behind him. There wasn't any particular reason that he felt out of tune with them all, he simply put it down to shock.

The club was ordinary enough judging by its appearance and the music pumping through the door; rainbows near the entrance warned the unwary traveller of its typical customers, however. The scene inside didn't look different from any other party in the vast city, the only change being people of the same gender typically dancing together and sharing saliva; they were mostly young and hyperactive and eager to experience. Alfred shuddered, blaming it on the cold, but remembered those reckless days in college when he wasn't embarrassed about such things in public, although now he blushed at the sight. The variety of costumes didn't help, some of them being far too revealing to provide any protection from the winter air.

After a while he managed to unwind, talking to their new neighbours over various alcohols and giving advice about how to deal with the other inhabitants of the building.

"You'll want to be very polite to Mr Hanson if you pass him in the mornings; he's grumpier than a starving bear," he said, pouring over the other acquaintances as best he could. "Who did you replace again?"

"The Phillips."

"Sweet! That means we can use the rooftop later at night since it's just you and Mrs Green on the top floor, and the poor dear is pretty much deaf."

"I don't want to have to stomp on the floor every two minutes because you two are fucking too loud," Lovino butted in; he was slowly growing more liberal with increased wine in his system. Arthur spat half a mouthful of his drink back into his glass.

"W-we're not, I mean – explain Alfred," he stammered.

The American let his head land on the table with a thud. "But I'm sick of explaining it all; it's too messy! You tell 'em!" He closed his eyes and listened into his partner's attempt at the tale.

"Long story short, I got amnesia from a bad fall, and he won't leave me alone because he's madly in love with me. That's about it, right Al?"

"You're missing a key point," he slurred, wagging a finger at the Brit without lifting his head off the surface.

"Oh yeah, we were engaged before the accident."

Antonio whistled. "Wow, that _is_ messy. But you're sticking it out together, that's so great! I hope it turns out okay."

Alfred picked himself up, rubbing his bruised forehead. "Why shouldn't it?" he asked.

"Come on Alfred, let's have a dance," Arthur cut in, sliding off his stool and pulling him onto the polished dance floor. The Englishman was full of surprises.

The taller man laughed at his fiancé's shyness; Arthur's hands hovered around his waist and hip but refused to land until he forced them down himself. He felt the Brit tense against him, pressed close by the surging crowd of youngsters around them, and kept his own palms against his slender back. "Relax Artie, it's just dancing – which I thought you couldn't do?" he joked, thinking back to Gilbert's leaving party.

Arthur began to loosen up swaying side to side in time with him and, dare he say it, leaning in a little. "Well I can't, at least not as good as you. Besides, everybody there knew me; this place is full of strangers. It won't matter if we're seen tonight."

"We're not exactly raving-"

"But someone would be bound to point us out and say, 'aw, they're so cute' or 'which one do you think bottoms' or something stupid. At least here we're alone."

"Arthur, Alfred, hi!"

Alfred spun them round to face the greeting, practically having to drag the other who had frozen at the sound of the familiar voice. A cheery smile shone through the crowd, the distinct mischievous curl accompanying it. "Feliciano! What're you doing here?" he asked. Arthur whimpered softly into his chest, covering his burning face and denying the reality of the new turn of events.

The Italian gestured wildly to the club around them, Ludwig in tow with their drinks; neither of them sported costumes, and if he knew the German as well as he thought, it would be because he had 'standards' to uphold. "We're meeting up with my brother, he just moved over here with his boyfriend. Never thought we'd see you two here. What's wrong, Arthur? Do you feel sick?"

"To my stomach," came the mumbled reply, but Alfred just laughed it off.

"Don't mind him; he's just mortified that he's been caught here. Your brother, huh? That's cool, it's always nice to have family nearby – wait, you said he's new round here? Is he your height, with darker hair?"

"Ah, so you've met him," the German said. Alfred took note of the new, expensive-looking shirt that he was wearing. _Talk about keeping it in the family,_ he thought, but the moment of childish jealousy passed.

The Brit groaned in his chest. "I need to sit down."

Alfred chanced a sneaky kiss on his forehead and brought them back to the tiny round table against the wall, acting as a backrest for the suddenly pale Englishman and rubbing small circles in his back. "Neither of you mentioned having a brother," he said.

"I try to forget," Lovino snickered before pulling his sibling into a tight hug. "It's good to see you, fratello! You're looking well - you too, Spudwig."

"Thanks I guess," the blonde grumbled, taking a sip of his beer.

Alfred felt his hand being squeezed painfully hard and brushed the hair off his boyfriend's forehead. "You all right, Artie?" he whispered, wrapping his arms around him protectively, but the Brit wriggled out of his grasp.

"I need some air," he said, heading for the door. Alfred smiled an apology at the others and hurried after him, growing worried about the man's sudden turn.

Arthur had escaped into the night air without his coat on, and Alfred draped it round his shoulders to prevent him from catching his death in the chill. He couldn't see how bumping into their friends was so bad, but if he was feeling rough then they should head home. To top it off, he was retching a little. "Come on, Arthur, you should get some sleep," he muttered, pulling him close as they walked away.

"I think I'm gonna be sick," he sniffed, hiding away once more in the safety of his shoulder. The American managed to send a short text to his co-worker, explaining that they'd gone home; it felt like they were intruding on the meeting anyway. It was as they reached the front door of the block that he noticed the pitiful flakes of snow settling around them, not enough to build up a layer over night, but enough to signal that winter was ready to pounce.

They slowly climbed the interior stairs, Alfred planning his nursing tactics aloud, Arthur too preoccupied with not throwing up to argue with him. "I'll try and get the radiator in your room working, and you can get warm in bed; I'll bring you a hot water bottle, oh, and some water. Geez, I don't know what could make you turn like this, Artie." By the time the Brit was tucked between the covers and had ordered him out, Alfred saw that it was gone midnight; thin clothes, a few drinks and a late night couldn't be good for anyone as sensitive as Arthur, especially in the biting November air.

* * *

**Thanks so much for sticking with this so far; I'm already having a case of 'ooh, I hate how I wrote those first couple of chapters' so it's wonderful to see that people still enjoy it regardless! I'm sorry for any pain this part may have brought you – needs must I'm afraid. (Oh boy, wait until November, you guys are gonna kill me...)**

**I lost the internet for about four days in March so I tried to get a chunk done while there was no distractions. While I didn't manage to finish it then, I did make a lot of progress with my new Cardverse fic; over-used now, I know, but I've been itching for a go at that particular AU for some months now. I'm making it up as I go along, but I'm enjoying writing it so far and I hope you would enjoy reading it. ;)**

**And for the record, I am very proud of the nickname 'Spudwig'. Someone's probably already done it though. :(**


	7. PREVIEW: November

**THIS IS A PREVIEW! **It's been so long since I updated this story, but I wanted to reassure you that it's not been abandoned, that it is in progress, however I can't predict when it will be finished. We're looking at the longest chapter in the entire story here - already 8,500 words and it's only half-finished. I promise it will be worth the wait (or at least I hope so). Hang in there, you lovely people, and thank you for all the support and feedback! :)

* * *

15th November

He wasn't surprised when Arthur fell into a deep sleep in the chair, wrapped up in a wool blanket with the heat of the fire radiating through the tiny living room. Preparing himself for a struggle, Francis took the cups back to the kitchen and rang the painfully familiar number through on the phone in there. He didn't even know if he would be graced with an answer.

After a few rings a groggy voice cut through the silence. "This had better be important."

"I'm sorry to wake you, Matthew," he said quietly, not wanting to disturb the drained Brit in the next room, "but I need your help."

"Give me one good reason why I should?"

"It's Arthur and Alfred - your brother threw him out, they were fighting awfully. Arthur's here, resting, but unless you can talk some sense into Alfred then they're finished. You remember what they were like at the end of April, no? How happy they were? For it to end like this is..." He waved his free hand in the air. "Unthinkable."

He heard some rustling about on the other end of the line, and hoped that it was the Canadian getting dressed. "What do you want me to do exactly? Drive over there right now?"

"...Oui." There was silence for a few seconds.

"All right. Get over there as soon as you can, eh?"


End file.
